


Breaking News

by involuntaryorange



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Happy Ending, Humor, Love/Hate, M/M, Metafandom, NewsAnchor!Arthur, Romantic Comedy, Weatherman!Eames, a wee bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 32,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3334964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/involuntaryorange/pseuds/involuntaryorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a damn good news anchor. The weatherman, Eames, is the thorn in his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Live from the Scene

“…Chicago police are reminding residents, especially those living in ground-floor apartments, to make sure their windows and doors are locked at all times.” _Turn to camera three_. “We have late-breaking news on a warehouse fire in Pilsen. The fire began shortly after 8pm, and firefighters have been battling the blaze for over an hour. Ariadne Loukas is on the scene. Ariadne?”

_If the satellite link doesn’t work this time, I swear I’m going to break some fucking necks—_

“Thanks, Arthur. Well, it’s a chaotic scene here on Cermak, where the fire department has cleared residents from several apartment buildings surrounding an abandoned warehouse where a fire has been raging for nearly two hours. As you can see behind me…”

***

Arthur is a damn good news anchor.

Arthur is professional. Arthur has a flawless broadcast standard accent, and he knows exactly which words to emphasize in every sentence. Arthur is able to sound authoritative, reassuring, and trustworthy, all at the same time. Arthur has fucking _gravitas_. 

Arthur can speak while simultaneously reading his pre-printed notes and the auto-cue and listening to Dom shout last-second updates into his earpiece, and he can do it without stuttering or breaking a sweat. Arthur always knows when the cameras are running, and has never been caught unawares on an intro or outro. Arthur has never accidentally cursed on air, and that’s including the time a _car drove off State Street and through the fucking studio windows._  

At 27, Arthur is the youngest person ever to anchor a news desk in a top-five market. He started out at 20 doing sports in Wichita, and he won’t stop until he’s being broadcast on televisions across the country. Ideally PBS NewsHour, but he’d settle for the NBC Nightly News. Sometimes you have to compromise.

Arthur looks _fucking amazing_ in a three-piece suit. If he weren’t sitting behind a desk he’s pretty sure there would be Facebook groups devoted to the way his ass looks in tailored trousers. His ass would have its own joke Twitter account.

And Arthur has a problem. That problem’s name is Eames.

***

“…a representative from the Chicago Public Library says that the million-dollar renovation will make the collections more accessible to the public and will provide visitors with comfortable space to read and work.” _Camera two._ “And now we go to Eames with the weather. Eames, how’s the weekend looking?”

“Oh, I don’t know, darling, I thought I might go see a movie, if you’d like to accompany me?”

_You’re still on camera. Don’t say anything. Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t react at all._

“Ohh, you were asking about the _weather_. Well, in that case. Bad news for Chicagoans without air conditioning, because it’s going to be a sauna tomorrow, with highs reaching the mid-90s and humidity through the roof. I’d advise all of you viewers to put on your most scandalous swim suit and hit the beach; I know that’s what I’ll be doing. We may find relief in the evening, with a 50 percent chance of rain…”

***

Eames doesn’t have a first name. Or maybe he doesn’t have a last name. Though Arthur has mentally christened him “Fucking,” as in “Fucking Eames,” which is how Arthur usually refers to him when he’s talking to himself. Not that he talks to himself about Eames all that much. Definitely not.

Fucking Eames swanned in with his British accent and his pleated slacks and his meteorology degree that was probably forged, and Dom hired him on the spot. Fucking Eames wears patterned shirts that create horrible moire effects on camera, and sometimes leaves them unbuttoned enough that you can see _tattoos_ on his collarbone. (Not that Arthur is looking.) Fucking Eames shows up late to staff meetings, goes outside during the broadcast to smoke, and Arthur’s pretty sure he came to work stoned once. Fucking Eames flirts with Arthur on air just to get a rise out of him.

Fucking Eames is, in short, the most unprofessional professional Arthur has ever worked with.

And Chicago _loves_ him. 

Actually, thanks to the internet, the entire _country_ loves him. He’s been at News5 for three months and he’s already got a nationwide fan network. People tweet and retweet blurry cell phone photos of him at Walgreens (“OMG is he buying condoms?!?!”). Teenaged girls wait outside the studio hoping to meet him. There’s a YouTube video titled “HOTTEST weatherman EVER!! Best of Eames” that’s gotten five million hits.

Arthur’s been here for two years, and occasionally he gets recognized at a pizzeria.

Arthur is not jealous. He’s just angry that the meritocracy is failing him.

***

“…Yusuf Abadi, reporting from the Animal Welfare League.” 

“Thanks, Yusuf. And if you’re interested in adopting Mitzi, you can visit their website for more information.” _Turn to camera one._ “Well, that’s all we have for this evening. Tune in again tomorrow at 6pm for more breaking news coverage from the team you trust. Stay tuned for the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon. From all of us at News5, goodnight.”

Dom wraps up the broadcast and as soon as the “ON AIR” lights turn off, the studio is a flurry of motion. Crew are shutting down equipment, cleaning up the detritus that manages to accumulate in a news studio over the course of a day, getting ready to head home to their slumbering families and reheated dinners. 

Arthur doesn’t have a family, but he _does_ have some leftover fried rice in the fridge that he’s been looking forward to all day. He’s unclipping his mic when Eames strolls over, hands in pockets. “Dom said he wants to meet with us in his office in fifteen minutes.”

Arthur looks at him suspiciously. “Why?”

Eames shrugs. “Bugger if I know.”

“Fine. I need to go wash this shit off my face.” Makeup is Arthur’s least favorite part of the job. _Was_ Arthur’s least favorite part of the job, until a certain pouty Brit showed up. Arthur stands up and heads for his dressing room. Maybe Dom is finally going to tell Eames to stop sexually harassing Arthur on the air. 

“I don’t understand why they insist on putting that glop on your face. You look lovely without it!” Eames calls after him. Arthur resists the urge to give him the finger as he walks away. That would be unprofessional.


	2. Human Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is not thrilled when he discovers what Dom wanted to talk to him and Eames about.

Arthur thinks he may be having a stroke.

“I’m sorry, I think I must have misunderstood you. What did you say?”

Dom’s throat bobs as he swallows uncomfortably. “The network wants—"

“Because it _sounded_ like you said that I’m getting a co-anchor, and that that co-anchor is going to be Eames, and there is _no fucking way that can be true_.”

“Saito said—"

“There is _no way_ that after two years in that chair, I am being demoted and that— that _clown_ is taking over my job.”

“You do realize I’m in the room, darling?”

Arthur rounds on Eames. “Why are you even _calling_ me that right now? We’re not on the fucking air!” Eames looks entirely too composed, slouching on Dom’s couch with one leg crossed over the other. It only pisses Arthur off even more.

“ _Arthur._ ” Dom is standing, now, holding a hand out as though he thinks physical intervention may be necessary. “This isn’t a demotion. It’s a… reorganization.”

Arthur stops glaring at Eames for a second so that he can roll his eyes, then puts them back where they were. He points a finger accusingly, moving it in time with his speech. “Did you do this? Is this part of your nefarious plot to completely fuck with my head?”

Eames continues to be infuriatingly calm, speaking as though soothing a wild animal. “This is the first I’m hearing about it, dar— Arthur.”

“This is coming directly from Saito,” Dom interjects. “From the _head of the network_. He says you two have ‘good chemistry.’”

“Yeah, like sodium and water have good chemistry. What the fuck, Dom.”

Eames raises his hand. “Am I the sodium or the water in this analogy?”

Arthur ignores him. If he pretends Eames isn’t in the room, then he can resist the urge to put his fist through a wall. Just barely. “How long do I have?”

“The announcement will go out on Monday, and Eames will start as co-anchor a week later. We need you both in the studio this weekend to record some promos.”

“Jesus Christ, Dom. How could you do this to me? After I saved your fucking job?”

Dom winces. “Arthur. My hands are tied. We’re losing viewers to CBS, and the network thinks this will raise our ratings. It’ll be good for your career in the long run.”

“My career was doing _just fine_ before Eames showed up,” Arthur growls, and then he’s striding out of Dom’s office with his teeth clenched so hard he may be turning them to powder. 

Just before the door slams shut, he can hear Dom calling out, “It’s not going to be as bad as you think!” 

_Right. It will be even worse._

***

Arthur has packed up his briefcase and he’s heading for the elevator. He’s going to go home and have a drink or two — or ten, or however many it takes to forget thatthis evening happened. The hangover, and everything that will come after it, is Future Arthur’s problem.

“Arthur!”

Arthur recognizes the voice — how could he not? — and continues walking. Eames is the last person he wants to talk to right now. Unfortunately, Eames doesn’t take the hint and starts jogging; Arthur can hear footsteps pounding down the hallway towards him, and the elevator doors appear to be getting further and further away like in a horror movie. When Eames has caught up he puts a hand on Arthur’s arm and Arthur freezes, closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.

“Arthur, I know you’re not thrilled about this, but I really think we— _oof_.”

Arthur grabs Eames by the collar of his hideous shirt and shoves him against the wall. Eames looks alarmed, which is vaguely satisfying, but not enough to make Arthur unclench his fists from the polyester blend that’s making his palms itch. “You are _not_ going to steal this job from me,” he hisses in Eames’s face.

Eames stares, nonplussed. “Arthur.” He puts his hands over Arthur’s and tugs gently.

Arthur tightens his grip further, just to spite him. “ _No._ I will not let you fuck me over.”

Eames sighs, and then suddenly Arthur discovers that _he’s_ the one pinned to the wall, Eames’s forearm braced across his chest. Arthur curses and pushes against him instinctively, trying to shove him away, but Eames just leans in with more of his not-inconsiderable mass and begins speaking calmly but forcefully. “I’m not trying to steal your bloody job! They didn’t even ask me if I wanted to do this, just told me it was happening.” Arthur struggles again, half-heartedly, mostly just on principle. “Look, I know you have a stick up your arse that makes you hate me, but—“

“I don’t have a stick up my ‘arse,’ Eames, I _care about my job_.”

“Well, believe it or not, _Arthur_ , I care about my job too. And I’m good at it. I don’t act the way I do just to piss you off.”

Arthur, considering this information, realizes how close Eames’s face is to his own. He can see the flecks of brown in Eames’s otherwise blue eyes, feel Eames’s breath huffing out over his cheeks. Eames smells good, like aftershave and cigarette smoke, and Arthur hates that it calms him down. The warm pressure of the arm banded across his chest is oddly soothing, and Arthur hates that, too. He wants everything about Eames to make him angrier.

He sags in defeat, letting his arms hang by his side and his head droop toward the floor. “You can let go of me now. I’m not going to hit you.” 

Eames takes a wary step back, holding up his hands, poised to fend off another attack. When Arthur merely takes a step away from the wall and stands there, hunched and staring at the ground, Eames relaxes his stance. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you might have a bit of an anger problem?”

“It may have been mentioned once or twice.” Others have indeed suggested that Arthur needs to work on his emotional stability. Generally ex-boyfriends, although Arthur isn’t going to mention that part. He has two modes — buttoned-up stoicism and incandescent rage — and because his job requires the former, the latter tends to come out when he’s off duty. Arthur’s rage is a beautiful, terrible creature, a flurry of teeth and clawed wings that can only be sated by fighting or fucking. Boyfriends have ranged from accepting to enthusiastic about the fucking, but reactions to the fighting have been considerably more lukewarm.

Eames is still watching him cautiously. “Are we all right, then?”

Arthur isn’t sure how to answer that question. His anger has crept back into its darkened lair, and now he just feels exhausted and hopeless. The best he can manage is, “We’re as all right as we’re going to get right now.”

“I’ll take it.” Eames gives Arthur a gentle shove in the direction of the elevator. “Go home, get pissed. Make sure you drink lots of water; you don’t want to be too puffy when we shoot our promos tomorrow.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur responds, though his heart isn’t in it. Eames must know it, because he just chuckles in response. Arthur trudges over to the elevator bank and jabs the summoning button. He can hear Eames’s footsteps slowly fading as the doors slide open with an incongruously cheerful _ding_. 

Arthur is stepping into the elevator when something occurs to him; he calls after Eames’s retreating figure, “Wait, you don’t act that way _just_ to piss me off?”

Eames shrugs and grins. “What can I say, love, you scowl so beautifully.” 

This time Arthur _does_ give him the finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter may be a bit slower coming, since I'm not entirely sure where the plot will go from here!


	3. Photo Op

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames pose for the promo shots.

Arthur is thankfully only slightly hungover the next morning, and he would have drunk all that water anyway, even if Eames hadn’t suggested it. He showers quickly, washing the remnants of industrial-strength gel out of his hair, and then he heads to the studio, where makeup puts more industrial-strength gel in his hair and spackles his face to its usual poreless state. The black suit that wardrobe has set aside for him is a bit blander than Arthur usually wears, but he supposes that they’re trying to bring him down a bit closer to Eames’s level for the promo shots.

_And isn’t that just a perfect metaphor? Eames dragging me down to his level?_

When Arthur arrives at the sound stage, Eames is already there, sitting in the second chair that has been added to the anchor desk. Sure enough, wardrobe has put him in a jacket and tie, although the tie is 70s-wide and knotted in what appears to be a quadruple windsor. He looks irritatingly at ease behind the desk; Arthur half-expects him to kick back and put his awful loafers up. 

“Hello, darling,” Eames purrs. 

Arthur is about to reply with something like “let’s get this over with” when Mal runs up and gives him a hug. “Arthur! It has been too long!” Dom’s wife is a fashion photographer, and she’s agreed to spend her Saturday morning taking the promo shots. Arthur tries to count his blessings; photo shoots are the most awkward thing ever, even if you _don’t_ hate the person you’re posing with, but at least he knows Mal and feels comfortable around her.

“Mal, hi,” Arthur says, kissing her on the cheek. “You’re looking gorgeous, as always.”

“And you as well. But what is this suit? Where are your lovely tweeds?”

“I guess they wanted me in something neutral for the photos.” Arthur shrugs, letting the “so Eames’s clothes don’t look even more ridiculous in contrast” go unspoken.

Mal tsks, then straightens his already-straight lapels. “Now, why don’t you go sit in your chair and look handsome, hmm?”

Arthur does as he’s told, studiously ignoring Eames. Mal adjusts her elaborate lighting set-up, moving around lamps and aiming and re-aiming reflectors, and then she picks up her enormous camera and begins shooting. Arthur focuses on the rapid-fire clicking of the shutter, which acts as a backing track for Mal’s graceful darting around the room; he lets the sound wash over him, and tries to look personable.

“Could you perhaps smile, _mon cher_?”

“I am smiling,” Arthur says through his teeth.

“I am not sure what your face is doing, but it definitely is not a smile.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘rictus,’” Eames pipes up helpfully. 

Arthur is tempted to bury his face in his hands in despair, but then he’d get foundation on his cuffs and have to go back to makeup. He settles for a small moaning noise and a brief, indulgent closing of his eyes.

“Scoot your chairs a bit closer to one another,” Mal commands. Arthur stays where he is, forcing Eames to do all the moving. 

“Good, now look at each other.”

“Jesus, are we taking wedding photos?” Arthur mutters to himself. From the way Eames snorts, it’s possible that was louder than he thought.

It feels incredibly awkward staring into Eames’s eyes, and it also reminds Arthur of their altercation last night, so he directs his gaze slightly past Eames’s right ear and tries to think relaxing thoughts. He cycles through puppies, Korean takeout, and bad romantic comedies starring Kate Hudson before Eames interrupts him. “Try not to look so uncomfortable, love. Just pretend I’m someone you like.”

“My imagination isn’t that vivid,” Arthur says, but he tries to unfurrow his brow and bring the corners of his mouth up to a neutral line. “Happy” may be out of his reach, but perhaps he can manage “completely disaffected.” 

Eames puts a hand on Arthur’s arm and leans back with a huge grin on his face, as though Arthur has just said something _hilarious_ and a photographer just happened to be pointing a camera at them. As Mal’s shutter clicks rapid-fire, Arthur entirely fails to look as though he has just said something hilarious.

Mal must be satisfied, though, because she claps her hands briskly. “Wonderful! Now some full-length shots! Go stand in front of the green screen, boys.”

Eames stands up, and… huh. Who knew _that_ was hiding under those enormous pleated slacks? _He should let other people dress him more often_ , Arthur thinks, before realizing that he’s staring inappropriately and Eames is waiting for him. 

They walk over to the screen and let Mal pose them like dolls. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Angled toward one another. Back to back, leaning against one another. (That one makes Arthur feel like he’s in a poster for a buddy cop movie.) Eames with his arm thrown over Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur with his arm thrown over Eames’s shoulders. Eames in his shirtsleeves, his jacket slung pseudo-casually over his shoulder. (Mal knows better than to try to get Arthur to do that; he’s never done anything casually in his life.) At least Mal doesn’t make them hold hands.

“Arthur, cross one leg in front of the other. No, no, the other way around. Eames, you’re lovely, perfect. Arthur, you’ve got to cross your arms, otherwise it looks unnatural.” 

Eames leans over to speak in his ear. “And you look so at ease in all other respects.” Arthur “accidentally” elbows him in the side.

After what feels like another eternity of shutter-clicking and French muttering, Mal lowers her camera and peers at its screen. “Okay, my handsome gentlemen, I think we are just about done here.”

“Would you like a wacky one?” Eames asks.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Of course she wouldn’t like ‘a wacky one.’”

Mal shrugs. “It’s digital, we can do whatever you would like.”

Eames turns to Arthur, cajoling. “Come on, darling, on three let’s make funny faces.”

“No.”

“One…”

“ _No._ ”

“Two…”

“Eames, no.”

“Three!”

Arthur, exasperated to the point of not even caring anymore, gives the camera an exaggerated scowl. The shutter clicks.

“Eames, that wasn’t very nice!” Mal scolds. 

“Did he actually do it? Let me see!” Eames rushes over to Mal’s side and looks at the camera display. She presses a few buttons, and they both burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Arthur demands.

Mal ignores his question and hits Eames’s arm with the back of her hand. “Naughty Eames, tricking Arthur like that!”

Arthur’s curiosity wins out over his patience and he shoulders his way between them to look at the display. In the photo, Eames is standing with his shoulders squared, looking at the camera with a sober expression. Arthur, meanwhile, is hunched over with his face twisted into a ridiculous grimace.

Arthur turns and whacks Eames in the arm, considerably harder than Mal had. “You’re such an asshole!” 

“I’m sorry, love, I didn’t think you’d do it! But look at it, you’re the most adorable thing! You look like Grumpy Cat!”

“I do not!” Arthur can feel himself blushing, which, combined with the infantile prank Eames just pulled, is giving him horrible flashbacks to elementary school. 

“You most certainly do!” Eames pulls out his cell phone and pokes at the screen, calling up a picture of Grumpy Cat and holding it alongside the image of Arthur. “See? You’re twins.”

“Oh my god, this is ridiculous. What are you, five?” Arthur is pissed off, he really is, but Mal’s melodious laughter and Eames’s admittedly accurate comparison — not that he’d ever say so out loud — are wearing away at his resolve. He can feel the corners of his mouth turning up, despite his valiant efforts to stay angry.

Eames plants a hand on his shoulder. He’s looking at Arthur with a strange warmth; Arthur can feel his face redden even further. “See, _that’s_ a smile, darling. And what a lovely one it is. I never knew you had dimples.”

Arthur turns his head away in embarrassment. “Shut up, Eames.”

“As you wish.” Eames turns to Mal. “E-mail that to me, yeah?”

“ _Do_ _not_ send that photo _to anyone_ ,” Arthur hisses. “ _Delete it_. Right now.”

“Of course, _mon cher_ ,” Mal reassures him, though Arthur is pretty sure she winks at Eames while she says it. He decides to cut his losses and heads for his dressing room.

“I’ll see you on Monday!” Eames calls after him.

When Arthur gets to work on Monday, he discovers that the photo is now the wallpaper on Eames’s phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: For Arthur's scowl, I was picturing [either](http://s3-ec.buzzfed.com/static/enhanced/webdr01/2013/9/19/13/enhanced-buzz-3033-1379613462-3.jpg) of JGL's Reddit AMA [photos](http://i.imgur.com/qkvmv4u.jpg?1).


	4. On-Set Appearance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's last week; Arthur and Eames's first week.

Arthur treats his last week as a solo anchor like it’s his last week on Earth, putting his all into every minute he has on air. He eats, sleeps, and dreams the news. He’s so professional his _hair_ hurts. 

The “buddy comedy” photo is plastered on the enormous video screen mounted on the building outside the studio, giant Eames and Arthur looking down on pedestrians walking along State Street, surveying their dominion. Every time he sees it, Arthur feels the knot in his chest get just a little bit tighter. He has to admit it looks good; Mal is a talented photographer, and he and Eames make an attractive couple. Pair. Group of two men with no social connection to one another. He would probably see that buddy comedy. Movie Arthur would be the no-nonsense veteran cop, and Movie Eames would be the untested newbie who doesn’t take things too seriously. But instead of Movie Arthur learning a valuable lesson about loosening up, Movie Eames would get shot in Act Three due to his own carelessness, and with his last dying breath he would say to Movie Arthur, “I should have listened to you when you told me to take this seriously.” And then Movie Arthur would have sex with, like, Mark Ruffalo or something.

Dom makes Arthur give an announcement at the end of his last broadcast on Friday, welcoming Eames to the desk and just generally acting like it’s the greatest thing ever that he has to share his job with this ridiculous human being. He grits his teeth and soldiers through it, and afterwards Ariadne says he looked like he should have been holding up the day’s newspaper and reciting his abductor’s list of demands.

He spends his weekend sleeping, smoking weed, watching Bergman films, and trying not to think about Monday.

***

**Monday**

Arthur approaches the studio like a man being led to the gallows. He recognizes that he’s being slightly overwrought; he’s built up Eames’s incompetence so much in his mind that at this point he’s expecting Eames to show up to the broadcast wearing one of those old-timey one-piece pajamas with a buttflap and to just make farting noises for the entire half hour instead of reading his lines. He sits through the staff meeting silently, and then lies down in the dark in his dressing room until it’s time for him to head to makeup.

The early broadcast… well, it goes better than Arthur had expected. Eames is somewhat restrained — restrained for Eames, at least — only referring to Arthur by a pet name twice and generally following the script, except when he ad-libs a joke about “chips” and “crisps” after Ariadne’s report on the new poutine place in Lincoln Park. He does his job and he doesn’t intentionally interfere with Arthur doing _his_ job. 

But his mere presence sets Arthur’s teeth on edge. Everything Eames says sounds glib, especially with his absurd accent, and Arthur finds himself clenching his fists so hard that his nails are leaving little half-moon marks on his palms. His brain keeps chanting _He’s here because you’re not good enough_ , and it’s all Arthur can do not to stand up and shout “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” although he’s not sure whether it would be directed at Eames or at his own mind.

By the time they get to the end of the late broadcast Arthur feels like he’s limping toward the finish line of a marathon; he’s absolutely _drained_ and all he wants is to lie down and drink some whiskey. (Arthur has never run a marathon so it’s possible he’s wrong about what one generally wants to do after finishing.) He digs deep into his reserves to make it through the sign-off.

“That’s all we have for tonight. Tune in again tomorrow at 6pm for more breaking news coverage from the team you trust. Stay tuned for the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon. From all of us at News5, goodnight.”

“And don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger,” Eames adds, right before the outro music begins to play.

Arthur waits until the “ON AIR” sign blinks off, and then he turns to Eames with an eyebrow raised. “Seriously?”

“I thought it sounded inspirational.”

“It sounds like you think they should change the channel.”

Dom comes strolling in from the production booth with a big, stupid grin plastered on his face. “Great job, you guys. I think we’ve got something very promising here. Really love the new sign-off line, Eames!”

“Cheers, Dom!” 

Arthur sighs and goes to wash his face.

***

**Tuesday**

Tuesday’s broadcasts also go relatively smoothly, although Arthur can see Eames’s actual personality starting to emerge. After Yusuf’s report on a dog who plays volleyball at the Oak Street Beach, Eames cracks some sort of joke about wanting to see Arthur playing beach volleyball, and Arthur apparently responds with an eyeroll of epic proportions, judging by the way Eames goes after him when the credits have rolled. 

“Arthur, dear, lighten up. I know straight blokes think every gay man wants to sleep with them, but it’s just harmless teasing.”

“Sorry, who’s gay here?”

Eames raises an eyebrow. “I am? I know straight men don’t have great gaydar, but really, I would have thought it was obvious.”

“I thought you were making fun of _me_ for being gay.”

“Why would I— wait, you’re not straight?”

“I mean, for a straight man, I’ve sucked a lot of cock.”

“Arthur!” Eames looks scandalized. “How did I not know this about you?”

“I don’t exactly publicize my personal life. ‘Which retired Cubs shortstop did I fuck last night? That and more, after the break.’”

“But you get so upset when I flirt with you!”

“Because we’re _doing a fucking newscast_ , Eames! I’m trying to be a professional and you’re acting like we’re at a bathhouse!” 

“…I need to recalibrate my understanding of the world.”

“Does this mean you’re going to stop making sexual comments about me on the air?”

“It’s adorable that you think that.”

***

**Wednesday**

_Of course it had to be Pride Week_ , Arthur thinks to himself while Eames reports on an LGBT film festival happening in Boystown. He steels himself, waiting for whatever heinously inappropriate comment Eames is going to make after the report — probably something about Arthur on a float wearing a speedo, or an invitation to go watch some gay porn, or an invasive question about Arthur’s sex life. But when Eames is done with the report, he just turns to Arthur and smiles expectantly, waiting for him to jump in with the next story.

Arthur can’t help but ask during the next commercial break. “What was that all about?”

“What was _what_ all about?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

“An entire report about gay pride and no salacious comments? You’re not going to leer at me and ask me to go see ‘Hung Hunks 3’ with you?”

Eames looks baffled. “Where would the challenge be in that?” 

Arthur throws his hands up in defeat. 

“Besides, I haven’t seen Hung Hunks 1 or 2, so I’d be hopelessly confused by the plot.”

Dom’s voice pipes in over the PA system. “Coming back from the break in five, four, three…” 

Later on, Eames manages to turn a story about the measles epidemic into a cheesy joke about Arthur possibly having a fever because he looks so hot.

***

**Thursday**

“Taste of Chicago began today, with restaurants from all over the city bringing their specialties to Grant Park. News5’s Ariadne Loukas was at the park this afternoon.”

Ariadne’s report is her usual well-balanced work, layering her perky-but-incisive narration over shots of unbelievably dense crowds, lines of people waiting to exchange tickets for disappointingly small portions of lukewarm food, and children playing in the face fountains. She spends more time talking about the new architectural plans for Millennium Park than about the food, which in Arthur’s opinion is how it should be. 

“That was Ariadne Loukas, reporting from Grant Park. Coming up—" 

“What’s your favorite Chicago food, Arthur?”

“Yes!” Dom shouts into Arthur’s earpiece. “Banter!”

“Uh… I guess Chicago-style hot dogs?”

“Such a cliché, darling. At least you didn’t say deep-dish pizza.”

Arthur tries not to shudder at the thought. Jumping into his “deep-dish pizza isn’t pizza” rant is not a good way to endear himself to Chicago viewers. “Fine, what’s yours?”

“Hmm, I think I’d have to say the rainbow cone.”

“You do like garish colors.”

“It’s not just a dessert, it’s a mystery! What flavor is ‘Palmer House’? Nobody knows!”

“I’m pretty sure it’s vanilla walnut cherry.”

Eames shakes his head in mock disappointment. “You kill wonder, Arthur.”

Arthur clenches his jaw and turns to camera three. “Coming up after the break, Yusuf Abadi reports on a Greektown cat who saved her owner’s life. Stick around to find out how.”

***

**Friday**

After the afternoon staff meeting, Yusuf taps Arthur on the shoulder. “Eames and I are going to grab some food, wanna join us?”

Apparently Yusuf and Eames have become friends. Arthur _almost_ says “Et tu, Yusuf?” but acknowledges that this might be a _tad_ melodramatic. 

They walk to Pret a Manger, which Eames says “reminds him of home.” Walking around downtown Chicago with Eames is a strange experience; it feels like people are staring at them, and he’s pretty sure at least one person takes a surreptitious cell phone photo. But he has his sleeves rolled up and the breeze off the lake feels kind of nice, and the seemingly endless week is finally almost over, and Eames is being quiet for once, so Arthur lets himself relax a little bit. He thinks about weekend plans: maybe he’ll go jogging on the lakefront, or wander around the zoo. Yusuf pitched a story today about a new baby sloth, and that sounds pretty cute. Arthur likes seeing the big cats stretched out lazily in the shade on a hot summer afternoon; something about their indolence, about 500 pounds of muscle and finely-honed predator instincts lying belly-up in the sweltering heat, calms him. 

The broadcasts go surprisingly quickly. Eames calls him “darling” and suggests that a Hyde Park fire was started “by you in that suit” and makes Arthur banter about favorite movies, but Arthur, much to his dismay, seems to be adjusting to Eames’s presence. If he had a gun to his head, he might even admit that it’s almost _nice_ — Arthur tries not to gag at the word — having someone at the desk with him. It feels sort of like having back-up; like, if he were to come down with food poisoning in the middle of a broadcast and had to run off-camera to puke, at least there wouldn’t be dead air. That’s why it’s nice. 

Arthur does the sign-off, and Eames adds his stupid line about dreaming. Dom comes out of the booth and claps them both on the back and says something about a great first week. Eames jokingly asks Arthur if he wants to go out for a celebratory drink, and Arthur snorts, and Eames looks a little hurt and maybe that wasn’t a joke after all, but Arthur wants to go home and sleep off the stress of the past five days, so that’s what he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ”You kill wonder” is from Pamie: http://pamie.com/2004/01/wonder-killer-2/
> 
> Apparently, since I left Chicago, Taste of Chicago has been shortened from ten days to five days and is now after July 4th? In this AU that change never happened.
> 
> For anyone who’s wondering, Yusuf does the human interest stories, but for some reason they all involve animals.


	5. Interactive News Media

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames are internet celebrities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got to put my graphics skills (such as they are) to use in this chapter!
> 
> I made up all of the usernames so it's possible that they actually exist and belong to people who have nothing to do with this story.
> 
> Oh, also, there's a vaguely NSFW photo in here, although I don't think it's NSFW enough to warrant changing the rating of the story.

The following Monday, Arthur is reading the New York Times on his phone in the conference room when Eames pops in with his laptop.

“We’re internet celebrities, darling!”

“Yes, I already know about your cult following.”

“No, not me, _us._ ” He puts his laptop on the desk and calls up a webpage. “Look at this Tumblr!”

“‘News Husbands’? What does that mean?”

“That’s our ship name. You know, what the fans call our relationship.”

“We don’t _have_ a relationship, Eames. You know that, right?”

“Well, the internet thinks otherwise. According to them, we have _very_ steamy sex between the early and late broadcasts.”

Arthur leans in and starts scrolling. There are the promo shots that Mal took, of course, captioned with various comments about “sexual tension” and “eye-fucking.” The photo with Eames’s hand on Arthur’s arm is accompanied by a dozen layers of speculation about what Arthur said that made Eames laugh. Most of the guesses appear to be terrible pick-up lines. Someone turned the back-to-back photo into a fake movie poster, with the tagline “The evening news just got a whole lot… sexier.”

The promo shots are interspersed with old head shots of each of them, links to YouTube clips of Eames and Arthur interacting, and about 30 animated gifs of Arthur rolling his eyes at Eames.

“Do I really roll my eyes that much?”

“Arthur, love, I sometimes worry that your eyeballs are going to pop out of their sockets and go spiraling off into the studio lights. Oh, take a gander at this Twitter account.”

“Arthur Lake Sass?”

“No, darling, you’re misparsing it.”

“What’s that a picture o— oh my god.”

“This is too weird,” Arthur says, shaking his head in disbelief. He closes out the Twitter window and goes back to scrolling through Tumblr. As one grainy photo emerges from the bottom of the window, Arthur can feel a cold sweat break out on his forehead. “Oh my god, how did they find my middle school yearbook photo?”

Eames is literally rubbing his hands together with glee. “This is the greatest thing I have ever seen.”

“Wait, is this number down here how many people have seen this photo?”

 “No, that’s just how many people have reblogged it, which is a mere fraction of the number of people who have seen it. You had _long hair_?”

“I went through a phase, okay.”

“Please tell me you wore Converse trainers with emo song lyrics written on the toe caps in ballpoint pen.”

“How the fuck could you even know about—” 

“It’s all right, darling, they also have a photo of me from the sixth form. Lord knows how they even found it without my real name.”

“This is so unfair. _Of course_ you were hot even when you were sixteen.”

“Did you just call me ‘hot’?” Eames asks in delight.

“ _Shut up_. Are you seriously wearing a leather jacket?”

“I still have that jacket,” Eames says a bit dreamily. “A little snugger now than it was back then. Oh, look, this one is from last week.”

“This is ridiculous!” Arthur sputters. “They cut Yusuf out of the frame! That’s literally his arm _right there_!”

“But look at your lovely smile. And your forearm.”

“This is libel!”

“Forgive me if this is inappropriate” — Arthur snorts at that — “but are you wearing pants in this photo?”

“What are you talking about? I’m obviously wearing pants.”

“That’s not what I meant…” Eames trails off, squinting at the screen. “Never mind. Anyway, they’re just having a bit of fun. No harm done.”

“This doesn’t feel a little, I don’t know, _invasive_ to you?”

Eames shrugs. “What’s the worst they can do? Find my old nude modeling pictures?”

“Your— you did _nude modeling_?” Arthur’s not sure what his face is doing, but judging by Eames’s amused expression, it must be doing _something_ , and probably something Arthur wouldn’t like.

“Helped an art school friend with a final project. Practically every art student poses nude at some point. I think my naughty bits were covered up in most of the photos, though. You know, artistically. With vases and decorative gourds and such.”

“You went to _art school_?”

“I focused on drama, but yes. Why so surprised, love?”

“I mean… you’re a weatherman.”

“Meteorologist, yes. Dramatic training is multifarious.” Eames waggles his eyebrows. “You’ll find that I am a man of many talents.”

Arthur is preparing a snarky response to that when Eames, scrolling through the website, makes a sudden noise of discovery. “Oh, look, they found one.”

“ _OH MY GOD._ ” Arthur slams the laptop shut and rockets backwards, as though afraid it will detonate. “I did _not_ need to see that.”

Eames smirks. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks. What about you? Any nude photographs whose surfacing I can look forward to?”

“ _No._ ” Arthur shakes his head emphatically just to drive home the complete absence of naked Arthur photos in the world.

“Shame. Your good looks are wasted on you, darling.”

“Me? I’m not the one hiding _that_ ” — Arthur gestures to the closed laptop — “under _this_ ” — Arthur gestures to what could generously be called Eames’s wardrobe.

Eames looks touched, which is not what Arthur was going for. “Arthur! I thought you weren’t looking.”

“How is this my life?” Arthur looks up at the ceiling, like he’s expecting God to appear and tell him he’s being Punk’d. 

Eames pats him on the shoulder. “Chin up, love. You have a following!”

“A following that’s convinced that I’m banging my ridiculous coworker,” Arthur grumbles.

“I shall choose to take that as a compliment,” Eames says breezily, and then he’s leaving the conference room, laptop under his arm. “See you at six, you little long-haired loner.”

When Arthur is sure Eames is gone, he holds his phone under the table and navigates to the News Husbands site so that he can get a good look at that photo. He’s a reporter, after all; it’s his job to be informed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I may have achieved new levels of meta with this chapter? This story is obviously influenced (probably more than I am consciously aware of) by earlgreytea68's "Next Big Thing."


	6. Weather Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames's second week as co-anchors continues.

On Tuesday, the air conditioning in the studio is broken. This wouldn’t be a problem except for two other things: first, it’s June-turning-into-July and Chicago is basically a swamp, and second, Eames seems to have no compunctions about dealing with the heat by walking around shirtless. He’s treating the studio like his own personal locker room: strolling through the hallways shirtless, going to the bathroom shirtless, buying chips from the vending machine shirtless — he even went to the fucking staff meeting shirtless, and spent most of the time absent-mindedly running his fingers back and forth over his chest. Dom raised an eyebrow and Yusuf looked confused and Ariadne looked like all of her Christmases had come at once, but nobody told him to _put a fucking shirt on, what is this, Bear Night at Touché?_

Arthur thought that perhaps he’d habituated himself to the sight of Eames’s bare torso by looking at that photo, but it turns out that a low-resolution grayscale photograph didn’t remotely prepare him for the full-color, three-dimensional version. Eames has bulked up a bit since his art school days, and he’s got a few more inexcusably tacky tattoos that Arthur finds his eyes lingering on when they should be looking at his notes, his phone, or _anything else_. 

It’s not just inappropriate and distracting, it’s _dangerous._ An intern already had to leave work early because she walked into a doorframe. Eames is literally a health hazard. A few years ago Arthur dated a law student, who introduced him to the term “attractive nuisance”; Arthur can’t quite remember the technical definition but he’s pretty sure that Eames is one.

It doesn’t help matters that Arthur’s somewhat illogical technique for dealing with Eames’s lack of professionalism is to wear as many clothes as possible; by the time the late broadcast rolls around he’s gone through three shirts, and the suit he wore for the early broadcast may need more help than a dry cleaner can provide. 

The studio lights are beating down on Arthur and at the rate he’s sweating through his makeup he probably looks like the guy whose face melted off in Raiders of the Lost Ark. He skipped the waistcoat as a concession to the heat, but it turns out that waistcoats don’t actually add that much insulation. And Eames is somehow managing to look as fresh as a spring-breeze-ruffled, baby-powdered daisy, in his loose linen jacket and far-too-unbuttoned paisley shirt. 

Arthur is miserable and dehydrated and frustrated and he feels like he’ll never be comfortable again. So when Eames turns to him after Nash’s weather report and says “How will you be beating the heat, Arthur?” he doesn’t think twice, just blurts out “Probably lying naked in front of the air conditioner.”

The set suddenly seems very, very quiet. Arthur is pretty sure he hears a camerawoman gasp. Eames’s eyes are dancing with delight and Arthur braces himself for a smug comment; he very nearly uses an index finger to pull his collar away from his neck like an overheated cartoon character. 

But Eames just turns to camera two and says “Well, we can all contemplate that tremendously appealing image during the ad break. When we come back, Yusuf Abadi reports on a Beverly man who lost his dog and found a wife.”

Dom counts them out to commercials and Arthur collapses onto the desk. He can hear Eames clear his throat. “Well. That was—“

Arthur sits up and points an accusatory finger at Eames. “This is _your_ fault.”

Eames looks taken aback. “How is it my fault?”

Arthur realizes he can’t say _You’ve been walking around all day with your terrible tattoos and your chest hair and it’s making me slightly insane_ , so he improvises. “You know. You’re rubbing off on me.” He cringes. “I mean— Your unprofessionalism. It’s _contagious_.” 

“You seem to be confusing ‘professionalism’ for ‘complete and utter boringness.’” 

“No, I’m confusing ‘professionalism’ for ‘not talking about my naked body on live television’!”

“What, that little comment? That was barely inappropriate.”

“I don’t _say_ things like that, Eames!”

Eames shrugs, unconcerned. “Apparently you do.”

Arthur lets out a strangled noise before Dom is counting them back in from the break; he manages to keep it together for the rest of the broadcast, and even ekes out a forced laugh at Eames’s joke about the ASPCA and eHarmony joining forces.

He practically sprints to his dressing room once the broadcast is over, where he strips off his sweat-soaked jacket and dress shirt as quickly as he can peel the fabric from his skin. He washes the makeup off his face, and after a moment of contemplation he just dunks his entire head under the faucet, letting the cool water wash away the day’s grime. There’s a knock at the door of his dressing room and he goes to answer it, draping a towel around his neck to catch the water dripping from his hair. 

He’s not entirely surprised to see Eames standing outside the door, and he starts patting at his hair with one end of the towel as he waits to find out why. He watches Eames’s gaze travel from his wet hair to the towel around his neck to his undershirt; it makes Arthur feel underdressed, which is ridiculous considering Eames has already managed to return to his previous topless state.

After thirty seconds pass without Eames saying anything, Arthur tries to speed things along. “Did you… want something?”

“Oh, right.” Eames holds up his phone. “The internet is _loving_ the new, carefree Arthur. Listen to this tweet: ‘Breaking news: Chicago heat wave caused by residents imagining Arthur Lake naked, meteorologists say.’”

“You’re making that up.”

Eames touches a hand to his chest and raises it toward the sky. “Never. I value my integrity above all else. Here's another: ‘Do you think Arthur is accepting applications for servants to fan him with palm fronds? #arthurlakelove.’ Hey, you have your own hashtag!”

“Oh, fantastic. My mother will be so proud.”

“Especially when she reads this very tasteful comment: ‘Record humidity levels IN MY PANTIES! #arthurlakelove.’”

“That is _disgusting._ ”

“Arthur! Women’s bodies are beautiful miracles of nature.” At Arthur's unimpressed look, he concedes, “Okay, fine, it’s a little disgusting.”

“Goodbye, Eames. Please go bother someone else.” Arthur closes his door. 

Eames just shouts through it. “‘That sound you heard at 10:23pm? A thousand Chicago women fainting #arthurlakelove.’”

“GOODBYE, Eames.”

“A bunch of people are wondering if we’re having sex right now!”

“GO AWAY.”

“I’ll just tweet them a winky face.”

“I WILL PUNCH YOU.”

Eames doesn’t respond to that, so Arthur assumes he must have gotten bored and wandered off to inflict his nakedness on someone else. From his desk, his phone chimes with a text alert message. It’s from Ariadne.

> _What’s this I hear about u taking your clothes off on live tv?_

“Oh, for—“ Arthur texts back a sequence of random letters and turns his phone off. 


	7. Broadcast Standard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames finish up their second week as co-anchors.

When Arthur arrives at the studio on Wednesday, he’s relieved to discover that the air conditioning has been fixed. Not just relieved but _delighted_ , which is the only explanation Arthur can come up with for why he finds himself smiling at Eames during the staff meeting. Eames looks as perplexed as Arthur feels, turning to check whether someone is walking by on the other side of the glass wall behind him, and then glancing down at his fly, presumably to make sure it’s zipped. Arthur schools his expression and goes back to doodling in the margins of his notebook, though out of the corner of his eye he can see Eames still staring at him.

His inordinately good mood carries over into the broadcast. After Ariadne reports from a South Side cooling center, Eames asks Arthur, “Where in the city do you like to go when it’s this hot out?” And instead of rolling his eyes, Arthur actually considers the question. 

“I’ve always liked the Chicago Cultural Center.”

“You know, I’ve never been there?”

“You should go — the architecture is beautiful, and they always have a few interesting art exhibits going. Plus it’s free.”

Eames smiles warmly at Arthur and says to camera one, “Well, there are your weekend plans, everyone. The Chicago Cultural Center gets the Arthur Lake seal of approval. We’ll be back in a few.”

And somehow, just like that, Arthur becomes A Banterer.

It’s not like he actually _starts_ any conversations; he just doesn’t resist when Eames asks him questions. Initially Eames looks startled whenever Arthur gives a genuine response, but after the first few times he seems to take it in stride.

Here’s the thing: it’s not that Arthur _cares_ that random people on the internet appreciated last night’s outburst. It’s more that… he lost his composure, and the world didn’t end. Arthur Lake acted like a human being, and nobody showed up and rescinded his journalism degree. He stopped by Dom’s office on his way out last night to apologize, and Dom didn’t even know what he was apologizing _for_. 

And if he were being entirely honest with himself, he would admit that he appreciated Eames having his back; for the first time, Eames wasn’t the one needling him and provoking a response, but the one picking up the slack and turning Arthur’s complete lapse in decorum into a seamless outro. For a brief moment, it almost felt like he was on Arthur’s side. 

He’s still ridiculously unprofessional, of course, and he’s still making the requisite one flirtatious remark per broadcast, but it’s starting to seem less like he’s doing it specifically to irritate Arthur and more like that’s just… what he does.

Arthur thinks back on the past 12 hours to make sure he hasn’t suffered a head injury, but he can remember waking up and heading in to work, so whatever is going on in his brain must be organic.

***

“Coming up next, in this week’s Robert’s Rules, Robert Fischer helps a woman who was left up the creek without a paddle by a local boat salesman.”

“Oh, that reminds me! I went on one of those architecture river tours, finally!”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“It was lovely. And I learned so much! Did you know that the name ‘Chicago’ comes from a Native American word for some sort of smelly onion?”

“Yes, literally every tour guide in Chicago will tell you that.”

“Well, perhaps some of our viewers did not know. So to those of you out there who didn’t know: Chicago means ‘smelly onion.’ Food for thought.”

“And when you’re done contemplating that, we’ll be back with Robert’s Rules.”

***

“Thanks, Yusuf, for that thought-provoking and timely report on the pigeons of Daley Plaza.”

“Did you have a pet growing up, Arthur?”

“I had a hamster.”

“What was its name?”

“…That’s not important.”

“I think it’s _very_ important.”

“Mmbmmb Snmbmbmgs.”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said ‘Mister Snuggles.’”

“Arthur, love, that is the single most adorable thing I have ever heard.”

“Fine, what was _your_ childhood pet named?”

“I had a pot-bellied pig named Paloma.”

“You did not.”

“I most certainly did!”

***

“So, Arthur, are you excited about the fireworks tomorrow?”

“They kind of lose their appeal once you reach adulthood, don’t they?”

“Oh, not at all. Who doesn’t like watching things explode?”

“Probably people who work in magnesium factories.”

“Were you a chemistry major, darling?”

“Double-major. Chemistry and comp lit.”

“Be still my heart.”

“Well, we can’t all be _actors_. Up next, Ariadne reports on a new controversy over the parking meters in the West Loop.”

***

Late Friday night, Ariadne sends Arthur an e-mail with the subject line “This is crazy!” Arthur is hoping it’s going to be another hilarious online dating horror story, but instead it’s a link to a Chicago gossip blog, specifically a post titled “Eames’s secret past: Shakespearean actor?”

> _WindyCityWindbag has uncovered footage from a 2005 Edinburgh production of Hamlet, with what appears to be News5’s Eames playing the title role. A photo that ran in a local paper at the time identifies him as Rupert Browne, but those pouty lips are instantly recognizable. You can’t fool us, "Mr. Browne"!_
> 
> _We already knew Eames could predict the weather and looks good naked — turns out he can act, too! Just one more thing that makes him Chicago’s number one ladykiller (or gentlemankiller, if the rumors are to be believed)._

Arthur looks at the photo accompanying the post; sure enough, it’s Eames, looking absurdly young and wearing an ornate Elizabethan jacket and… is that an earring? A _dangly_ earring? Arthur snorts in amusement and starts the video playing.

He’s not sure what he expects — some sort of drama-school scenery-chewing, probably. As the blurry, wobbly video comes to life and he hears the opening line, he rolls his eyes; _of course_ they chose The Soliloquy. And now he has to watch a fresh-faced Eames emote his way through the words that have passed over the lips of the world’s greatest actors. 

By the third line, though, Arthur is squinting at the screen in confusion. By the fourth line, his jaw is hanging open. This isn’t the flowery, teeth-gnashing performance he was expecting; Eames is _good_. Somehow he’s taking words that were written half a millennium ago, printed millions of times and performed no doubt tens of thousands of times, and speaking them as though they’re flowing directly from his heart. Even though Eames’s face is mostly a white blur due to the combination of a bad cell phone camera and blinding stage lights, Arthur can see the angst written all over him. When Eames contemplates the merits of suicide, Arthur holds his breath. When Eames rues the threat of the unknown afterlife, Arthur feels a lump rise in his throat. Eames’s Hamlet is at once unhinged, witty, enraged, and deep in mourning, and by the time he puts on a flippant front to greet the arriving Ophelia and the video cuts out, Arthur is staggered to discover that he has tears in his eyes.

No, Eames isn’t good — he’s _incredible_.

Arthur doesn’t know what to do with this information. On the one hand, he feels embarrassed for having misread Eames so dramatically; he’d been operating under the assumption that Eames was a talentless layabout, when in fact he’s sitting on a mountain of hidden talent. On the other hand, he feels _angry_ , knowing that Eames has _that much talent_ and is choosing instead to act like an uncultured idiot on a midwestern news program. On a third hand helpfully supplied by an imaginary friend, he feels… something he’s not quite ready to name, but it’s making his heart race and his palms sweat. He wants to go find Eames and yell at him; he wants to avoid Eames and never see him again. 

He settles for clicking the “watch again” button on the video.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shakespearean Eames is Tom Hardy in The Virgin Queen. And yes, [he does have a dangly earring](http://www.pictures-images-photos.com/images/tom_hardy_in_the_virgin_queen.jpg).


	8. Fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the fourth of July. There are fireworks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, two chapters in one day?? To be honest, I was slogging through the previous chapter so that I could get to this one. ;-)

Every Fourth of July, the network holds a staff party on the roof of the building. It’s not the tallest building in the Loop by a long stretch, but it’s tall enough that you can catch a glimpse of the Navy Pier fireworks and, on a clear night like tonight, see the smaller neighborhood fireworks shows radiating out into the distance.

The past couple of years Arthur’s had to work the night of the 4th, which meant that his visits to the party were peremptory and booze-free. But since the holiday falls on a Saturday this year, the weekend anchors are on the clock, which leaves Arthur free to enjoy himself. As much as it’s possible to enjoy himself at a work function, that is.

Dom’s strategy appears to be to get all of his drinking done at the very start of the party so that he’s sobered up by the time he has to do the late broadcast. When Arthur arrives at the rooftop, Dom yells his name with glee, then corners him by the American flag sheet cake and starts talking about perpetual motion machines.

“No, but look, see, let’s say you had a top, and the top could spin forever.”

Arthur nods politely.

“Then it would spin forever! It would never stop spinning!”

Arthur tries to look impressed.

“BAM!” Dom tries to clap his hands together emphatically, but since he’s holding a plastic wine glass in one of them, he mostly succeeds in splashing himself with chardonnay. “Problem solved!”

“Dom,” Arthur says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You are one of my closest friends.”

Dom makes a very serious face. He has the wide, glassy eyes of a drunk man trying and failing to look sober. “ _I’m_ one of _your_ closest friends too! No, wait. You’re _my_ friend. Closest friend. One of them. As well.”

“But you are completely wasted and it’s really fucking annoying.”

Dom nods understandingly. “Mal was looking for you. I’m going to have some cake.”

Arthur cringes as Dom picks up a large cake server, and leaves before he can see what havoc Dom will wreak upon the poor, defenseless pastry.

Mal is drifting elegantly through the crowds, and when Arthur catches her eye she runs up to him and kisses his cheeks. “You are looking quite radiant, _mon cher_.”

“I’ve been trying out a new moisturizing regimen.”

“That is not what I meant. You look happy. On the news, I see you smiling.”

“I’ve always smiled.”

“No, you always ‘smiled.’ And now you _smile_.” She gestures expansively.

“I’m afraid I’m not catching the difference here, Mal.”

Mal shakes her head and pats Arthur on the arm. “It’s all right. Feeling is more important than seeing.” She glides away, leaving a confused Arthur in her wake.

He wanders over to Ariadne and Yusuf, who appear to be having an argument about who would win in a fight between a man with four arms and a man with four legs.

“It’s all about balance,” Yusuf is saying. “Four legs means stability, which ultimately translates to victory.”

“Stability doesn’t mean shit when you’re being punched in the balls with four fists at a time!”

“Where would the balls be, exactly?” Arthur asks. “In the center of all four legs, like the legs are the petals of a flower? Or would there be a set of balls between each pair of adjacent legs?”

Yusuf and Ariadne stare at him, agog. “That is an _excellent point_ , Arthur,” Ariadne says.

“Trust Arthur to get to the heart of the matter,” Yusuf adds.

Arthur tips his head modestly and decides to leave the conversation while he’s ahead.

The noise of the revelry is starting to give him a headache, so he wanders away from the crowd to get some fresh air and relative quiet. When he rounds the stairway exit, he discovers Eames standing in the shadows, smoking a joint.

Eames smiles sheepishly. “We’re off tonight, yeah?”

Arthur shrugs, plucks the joint out of Eames’s hand and takes a long drag.

Eames’s look of astonishment is something Arthur plans to treasure for a long time. “Arthur! I never would have taken you for a pothead.”

Arthur exhales slowly, watching the smoke catch the rainbow flashes of light bouncing between the office buildings.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“I’d like to, though,” Eames says quietly into the darkness.

“And anyway, what about you? Pretending to be a— a—”

“Louche?”

“Yeah, a louche, when you’re really… someone who knows the word ‘louche.’”

“I take it you’ve seen the Hamlet video, then.”

“Yeah. Why on _earth_ are you _here_?”

Eames shrugs. “I wanted to do something different.”

“So you decided to become a weatherman in the American Midwest?”

“I was traveling across the country and I ran out of money in Chicago. And then I saw this opening, and Dom hired me, and I enjoyed the job. So I stayed.”

Arthur leans his elbows on the railing. “You and I live our lives very differently.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

Eames joins Arthur at the railing and they pass the joint back and forth in silence for several minutes, watching the fireworks reflected in the skyscraper across the street and listening to the thundering echoes. Eventually, Eames speaks.

“I’m not ‘pretending,’ you know. ‘Pretending’ suggests that one version of me is real and the rest are fake. But they’re all me. I can be an actor and a meteorologist. I can love Shakespeare and terrible pick-up lines. I can tease you mercilessly and… well. ‘I contain multitudes.’” He knocks Arthur’s shoulder with his own. “Sort of like how prim-and-proper, stick-in-the-mud Arthur is also a weed-smoking hippie.”

Arthur giggles at that, in true weed-smoking hippie style. That sets Eames off, and for a few minutes they just laugh, leaning on each other, shushing each other loudly and rather pointlessly so nobody will discover them.

Eventually Arthur recovers enough to catch his breath and wipe the tears from his eyes. “God, of course you like Whitman.”

“Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems.” Eames looks at Arthur expectantly.

“Translation: I scored some really good E off my friend.”

Eames sighs dramatically and tosses the spent joint on the ground. “Fine, what’s more your style? The modernists? Eliot? Cummings?” He steps back from the railing, turns toward Arthur, and… he changes. Arthur can’t put his finger on exactly what’s different, but where Eames was lax and elegant before he is now coiled, determined, focused. He resumes speaking, but his voice is quieter, his intonation more restrained.

“I like my body when it is with your body.”

“Um—“

“It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.”

Eames takes a step closer to Arthur, his eyes fixed on Arthur’s face. Arthur can see Eames’s throat bob as he swallows before resuming his gentle purr.

“I like your body. I like what it does, I like its hows… I like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smoothness and which I will again… and again… and again kiss…”

Eames takes another step, and now he has Arthur trapped against the railing, caging him in with an arm on either side. He’s so close Arthur can feel the exhalations of Eames’s whispered words on his own lips.

“I like kissing this and that of you, I like… slowly stroking… the shocking fuzz of your electric fur… and what-is-it comes over parting flesh…”

Arthur’s mouth has gone very, very dry. It’s probably the weed. When he opens it to speak, all that comes out is a high-pitched whimpering sound. He clears his throat and tries again. “What is this, Eames’s Poetry Corner?”

A corner of Eames’s mouth quirks up. “This is me trying to seduce you.”

“Ah.” Arthur tries to nod imperiously but he’s pretty sure he comes off more like a broken bobble-head. “Carry on.”

“You had fun this week, admit it. And the news wasn’t any worse off.”

Arthur frowns, looking away from Eames. “I’m not going to become some kind of… of _free spirit_ or something. You’re not going to teach me an Important Life Lesson about loosening up.”

Eames takes a step back, giving Arthur some space. Arthur is grateful for it at the same time that his body keens at the loss. “I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

Eames’s eyes settle on his, glittering with sparks of colorful light in the dark. “I want to take you to dinner.”

Arthur bites his lip, pretends to deliberate. “The internet already thinks we’re dating, so… fine, I guess.”

“I am liking this logic. Shall I compile a list of all the other things the internet thinks we’re doing?”

“Shut up, Eames.” Arthur’s sure his smile attenuates the blow, but he’s okay with that.

“No backsies!”

“‘No backsies’? What are you, eight?”

“You’ve agreed to go out with me and you can’t take it back. When?”

“Next weekend.”

“You’re going to make me wait until _next weekend_?”

“Is there a problem?”

“I think I’m going to need to restock my lotion supply.”

“Eames, ew, I don’t want to hear about that.”

Eames shoots Arthur a knowing look. “Really? Like you ‘didn’t want’ to see that photo?”

“Shut up.” Arthur can feel his face turning red, although he can probably blame it on the fireworks.

“No backsies!”

“…No backsies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing the fine semi-tradition of Arthur needing a bit of weed to help him get over the hump and... well, hump.
> 
> Poems mentioned are Whitman's "Song of Myself" and e.e. cummings's "i like my body when it is with your."


	9. Arts & Leisure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is starting to wonder why he thought waiting a week for his date with Eames would be a good idea.

Arthur is starting to wonder why he thought waiting a week for his date with Eames would be a good idea. 

For one thing, it’s giving him far too much time to second-guess his decision. He’s aware that “no backsies” isn’t legally binding, but he thinks there was probably a reason that he committed himself to the choice even that small amount. Stoned Arthur may not make the _best_ decisions — it turns out there’s a _reason_ you dip chips into salsa rather than pouring the entire jar of salsa into the chip bag “to save time” — but it’s not like sober Arthur has a much better track record. So he’s been in a constant state of oscillation between _Oh my god what was I thinking this is the worst idea I’ve ever had_ and _Don’t you dare sabotage yourself on this, it will be fine_.

Compounding the problem is the fact that Eames seems to be on a mission to drive him slowly insane. Although he hasn’t resorted to toplessness (yet), he’s been leaving one more shirt button undone than usual, and instead of flipping a quarter around his knuckles during the staff meetings (his usual restless habit) he’s been tapping pens and coffee stirrers and a wide variety of other phallic objects (seriously, he once brought a banana) against that ridiculous lower lip. He sits back with his legs sprawled open, his body a set of sinuous lines all leading toward his crotch. When Arthur looks at him (at his face, that is) he flicks his eyes away as though he’s been “accidentally” caught staring, but his gaze lingers a millisecond too long for it to be inadvertent. 

Arthur is not one to surrender a battle, of course, especially not a battle of wills. So he gives as good as he gets. He wears his most tailored trousers and drops something on the floor at least once per staff meeting. He’s been ordering cappuccinos instead of his usual black coffee, just so that he can slowly lick the foam off his top lip. He usually shaves before coming in to the studio, but this week he’s been putting it off until right before the early broadcast, so that he can spend the staff meetings delicately running his fingers along the stubble on his chin and neck; he remembers how Eames had stared that time he opened his dressing room door in an undershirt.

It’s possible the tension has been spilling over into the broadcasts. If the internet thought they were “eye fucking” before, then they must be engaged in hardcore ocular pornography at this point. Their banter is so full of innuendo he’s surprised the network hasn’t been fined by the FCC.

Yet for all of the coy tormenting from afar, there is a palpable hesitance to actually interact with one another. Their discussions in the staff meetings and when they run into each other in the hallways are cordial and impersonal, as though there is a precarious balance between them that neither of them wants to upset. Neither of them has mentioned the upcoming weekend.

Arthur would almost wonder if he had imagined the whole rooftop seduction scene, if not for the notes that Eames keeps leaving for him.

***

Arthur discovers the first note when he arrives at the studio on Monday — a folded-up piece of notebook paper slipped under the door of his dressing room. When he unfolds it he finds a message scrawled across it. It’s unsigned, but he has a pretty good idea of whom it’s from.

“I know you think you don’t like Whitman but I think you just haven’t given him a chance.”

Below that are a few lines of verse.

> _Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,_   
>  _Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture,_   
>  _not even the best,_   
>  _Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice._

For the rest of the week, the notes continue to appear randomly in his dressing room. Arthur reads them and puts them in a desk drawer.

***

> _Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?_   
>  _I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in_   
>  _      which they are won. _

***

“Lollapalooza has announced their final line-up for the event, with headliners including Bastille, Imagine Dragons, and Beck. The outdoor music festival will take place in Grant Park at the end of the month. What kind of music do you like to listen to, Arthur?”

“Well, it depends on what I’m doing while I’m listening to the music.”

“Let’s say you’re doing something physically active.”

“Like weight-lifting?”

“No, something more active. Something that gets your heart pounding and your breath heaving.”

“Oh, so like running.”

“Sure, we could go with that.”

“Let’s see… probably 1970s soul.”

“Hmm. Interesting choice. For running.”

“I know some people like to listen to really uptempo music while they’re doing it — running, I mean — but I prefer to pace myself.”

“Oh, I completely agree. Don’t want to burn out too early.”

***

> _Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?_   
>  _Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica_   
>  _on the side of a rock has._   
>  _Do you take it I would astonish?_   
>  _Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering_   
>  _through the woods?_   
>  _Do I astonish more than they?_   
>  _This hour I tell things in confidence,_   
>  _I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you._

***

“Chicago was named the 5th best U.S. destination for foodies by _Saveur_ magazine. You know, the Chicago food scene is impressive, but I must say, it doesn’t hold a candle to London.”

“Right, because the British are known for their excellent cuisine.”

“Arthur! I’m offended. I’ll have you know that there are two cuisines we Brits excel at: fried foods and breakfast.”

“Excelling at breakfast is like excelling at… _miniature golf_.”

“Have you ever had a full English breakfast?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“Oh, darling, you’re missing out. I’m going to make you breakfast sometime soon.”

“Looking forward to it.”

***

> _The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains_   
>  _of my gab and my loitering._   
>  _I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,_   
>  _I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world._

***

“…The Newberry library’s _Poetry_ magazine retrospective will be on exhibit through August 15 th.”

“Do you like poetry, Arthur?”

“I’ve been known to enjoy a poem once in a while, yes.”

“Who is your favorite poet?”

“It’s hard to say. Can’t stand the transcendentalists, though.”

“Tsk. There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.”

“I am pretty fond of Cumming, though.”

“I believe it’s Cumming _s_. With an ’s.’” 

“Oh, is it? My mistake.”

***

> _You sea! I resign myself to you also — I guess what you mean,_   
>  _I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers,_   
>  _I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me,_   
>  _We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of_   
>  _sight of the land,_   
>  _Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse,_   
>  _Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you._

***

Dom approaches the desk while Arthur and Eames are still unclipping their mics. He has the expression of someone who is about to ask a question he doesn’t actually want to hear the answer to. 

“So. Uh. Is something… going on here?”

“Arthur,” Eames says grandly, “has finally agreed to go out to dinner with me.”

“Oh.” Dom looks slightly troubled, although he usually looks slightly troubled, so it may just be a coincidence. “Well. That’s… good.” He scratches the back of his neck and looks like he’s preparing to say something else, although he seems to be having trouble actually getting it out.

“Dom,” Arthur reassures him, “neither of us is going to let this affect our work. We’re professionals.”

“It’s not that, it’s… well, the sexual tension has been _really_ good for ratings.”

“So you’re saying we should remain celibate for the sake of the broadcast.” Arthur levels an unimpressed look Dom’s way.

“Darling, you’ve already decided you’re going to put out? This day just keeps getting better and better.”

Dom, thankfully, ignores Eames and responds to Arthur. “No! No. Of course not. I just… didn’t expect it to happen so soon.”

“Oh, what did you put your money on?” Eames asks. Dom turns red and coughs.

“Wait,” Arthur interjects. “What are you talking about?”

“The office pool on when we’d get around to shagging.”

“The _what_? People are placing _wagers_ on my sex life?”

“ _Our_ sex life, and yes. So, Dom, what was your guess?”

“I thought it would be another couple of months,” Dom confesses.

“Another couple of months? Frankly, I’m insulted.”

“Dammit!” Ariadne has returned to the studio from her on-location report in Ukrainian Village. “I thought for sure you’d already boned. Now I’m out twenty bucks.”

“Trust me, Ariadne, when I’ve ‘boned’ Arthur you’ll be absolutely certain of it.”

“I’m feeling a little objectified here,” Arthur volunteers.

“Oh, my apologies, love. When we’ve boned _each other_.” 

“Yeahhh, _not_ what I was objecting to.”

***

After the Friday late broadcast, Arthur (unsurprisingly) finds another note shoved under his door.

> _There was never any more inception than there is now,_   
>  _Nor any more youth or age than there is now,_   
>  _And will never be any more perfection than there is now,_   
>  _Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now._

He turns the words over in his head. He thinks about this week, the seemingly endless game of chicken that he and Eames have been engaged in. He’s not sure whether losing means being the first to break this tenuous barrier between them, or not breaking through it at all. He’s been so focused on making it through the week, on the giant countdown clock in his head, that he’s forgotten that the clock is his own creation. 

The next thing Arthur knows, he’s standing outside the door to Eames’s dressing room with the note crumpled in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh, a cliffhanger! (I mean, not really, you can probably guess what happens next.)
> 
> At this point I will take the time to remind you all that this is rated Teen and Up, and I don't anticipate writing anything that will change that. ;-)


	10. A Brief Message From Our Sponsors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The internet responds to Arthur and Eames's third week as co-anchors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was too lazy/sane to mock up images of Twitter/Tumblr, so you'll just have to use your imaginations (certainly not in short supply around here!). Indented text is replying to the previous text. Hopefully somewhat intuitive.

>   _“Lollapalooza has announced their final line-up for the event, with headliners including Bastille, Imagine Dragons, and Beck. The outdoor music festival will take place in Grant Park at the end of the month. What kind of music do you like to listen to, Arthur?”_
> 
> _“Well, it depends on what I’m doing while I’m listening to the music.”_
> 
> _“Let’s say you’re doing something physically active.”_
> 
> _“Like weight-lifting?”_
> 
> _“No, something more active. Something that gets your heart pounding and your breath heaving.”_
> 
> _“Oh, so like running.”_
> 
> _“Sure, we could go with that.”_
> 
> _“Let’s see… probably 1970s soul.”_
> 
> _“Hmm. Interesting choice. For running.”_
> 
> _“I know some people like to listen to really uptempo music while they’re doing it — running, I mean — but I prefer to pace myself.”_
> 
> _“Oh, I completely agree. Don’t want to burn out too early.”_

 

Awww, Eames wants to know what kind of music Arthur listens to!

 

Is Eames going to make Arthur a mix CD? Because that would be the cutest thing ever

          Track 1: "I Want Your Sex"

                    Tracks 2-18: "I Want Your Sex"

 

A) Does Arthur lift weights? B) Is there photographic evidence of this?

          Do my fantasies count as "photographic evidence"?

                    New AU: Arthur meets Eames at the gym when Eames offers to spot for Arthur while he's doing bench presses

 

SOMEONE PLEASE GIF EAMES SAYING “HEART POUNDING AND BREATH HEAVING”

          Here you go: [gif]

                    is there a way to make a gif the wallpaper on your phone??

 

OMG Arthur he does not mean running!!

 

Arthur’s “running” soundtrack: [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6QZn9xiuOE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6QZn9xiuOE)

 

I'm pretty sure I shouldn't feel this uncomfortable watching the evening news with my parents?

 

Newsflash: Eames and Arthur are into tantric sex

          I'd say "TMI" except that when it comes to these two THERE IS NO SUCH THING

 

* * *

 

> _“Chicago was named the 5 th best U.S. destination for foodies by Saveur magazine. You know, the Chicago food scene is impressive, but I must say, it doesn’t hold a candle to London.”_
> 
> _“Right, because the British are known for their excellent cuisine.”_
> 
> _“Arthur! I’m offended. I’ll have you know that there are two cuisines we Brits excel at: fried foods and breakfast.”_
> 
> _“Excelling at breakfast is like excelling at… miniature golf.”_
> 
> _“Have you ever had a full English breakfast?”_
> 
> _“I don’t even know what that is.”_
> 
> _“Oh, darling, you’re missing out. I’m going to make you breakfast sometime soon.”_
> 
> _“Looking forward to it.”_

 

 

No, the British are known for their ridiculously hot accents and muscles and tattoos

 

Can you imagine Arthur eating a scotch egg?

          If anyone can make a scotch egg sexy…

                    Nobody can make a scotch egg sexy. Not even Arthur.

 

ARTHUR BREAKFAST DISS

 

I’d like to have Eames’s “full English breakfast,” if you know what I mean

          I wouldn't mind getting my mouth around Eames's sausage, if you know what I mean

                    I want to have sex with Eames, if you know what I mean

 

HOLY SHIT DID HE JUST OFFER TO MAKE ARTHUR BREAKFAST

          YES, YES HE DID

                    asdfkjhasldkfjasdf

 

* * *

 

> _“…The Newberry library’s Poetry magazine retrospective will be on exhibit through August 15 th.”_
> 
> _“Do you like poetry, Arthur?”_
> 
> _“I’ve been known to enjoy a poem once in a while, yes.”_
> 
> _“Who is your favorite poet?”_
> 
> _“It’s hard to say. Can’t stand the transcendentalists, though.”_
> 
> _“Tsk. There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.”_
> 
> _“I am pretty fond of Cumming, though.”_
> 
> _“I believe it’s Cummings. With an ’s.’”_
> 
> _“Oh, is it? My mistake.”_

 

Arthur doesn’t LIKE poetry, Arthur IS poetry

 

I feel like I’m missing some kind of inside joke here

 

My sexual orientation: Arthur talking trash about transcendentalism

          My sexual orientation: ARTHUR SAYING HE LIKES CUMMING WTFFFFFFF

                    IS THIS REAL LIFE

 

Here’s a poem for you Arthur:

There once was an anchor named Eames,  
Who strained all his shirts at the seams,  
Was British and sexy,  
With humor quite vexy,  
And his face launched a thousand memes.

          AHAHAHA here I wrote one too:

          When Arthur and Eames do the news,  
          They never are wanting for views.  
          The fangirls all mention  
          The sexual tension  
          As reason enough to enthuse.

                    How about a haiku?

                    two newscasters cause  
                    spontaneous combustion  
                    of televisions

                              Two anchors, both alike in dignity,  
                              In fair Chicago where we lay our scene,  
                              Blah blah blah eyefucking

                                        "eyefucking" isn't iambic.

                                                  And THAT is why Shakespeare's work will never be as good as it could have been.

 

Dear Internet: You're welcome. [video of Arthur saying “I am pretty fond of Cumming” remixed into a techno song]

          This is my new ringtone.

                    This is my new soundtrack to my life.

 


	11. Coming to You Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Arthur does once he reaches the door of Eames's dressing room.

Arthur knocks on the door, two sharp raps. Eames’s muffled voice comes from inside: “Just a moment!” Arthur can hear Eames moving around, the sounds of footsteps and papers shuffling. 

When Eames opens the door, he’s peering into his worn-out leather messenger bag and shoving some crumpled documents into it. He startles slightly when he sees Arthur standing there. “Oh, hello. Did you want—“ 

Eames stops talking as Arthur silently pushes past him into the room. Arthur reaches an arm around Eames and shuts the door; the move brings him chest to chest with Eames, who is now staring at him quizzically, practically crossing his eyes to keep Arthur in focus.

Arthur takes his time, partly to savor the moment and partly to give his brain a chance to do its “DANGER, DANGER, BLEEP BLORP” thing if it turns out this is a bad idea. He brings a hand up to Eames’s face, traces a finger across the stubble on his cheek, runs it across that absurd lower lip that’s been taunting him all week. Eames’s lips part slightly in response, which is all the invitation Arthur needs before he cups Eames’s cheek, leans forward, and kisses him.

At first it’s barely there, just a gentle brushing-together of their lips, sending tingles down Arthur’s spine. Eames has closed his eyes so Arthur follows suit, focusing on the sound of Eames’s breathing, the scent of him, the feel of his stubble under Arthur’s palm, the dry drag of their lips. He brings his other hand up to frame Eames’s face and fits their lips together more firmly. Eames responds to this by huffing out a breath and planting his hands on Arthur’s waist, parting his lips to deepen the kiss. His bag falls on Arthur’s foot. Arthur is pretty sure that there’s some sort of metal thermos at the bottom of the bag, but there are more important things than a potentially-broken toe to focus on at the moment.

Arthur sucks, nips, runs his tongue along Eames’s lips, lets Eames pull him closer, lets Eames lick into his mouth. Eames’s hands feel enormous at his hips, clenching and relaxing with the ebb and flow of their kisses. All the thoughts usually swirling around in Arthur’s head have been reduced to a low hum. The hum sounds strangely like Eames’s name.

Eventually they break apart through some unspoken mutual agreement. Arthur opens his eyes and is startled by the glare of the fluorescent lights; somehow he’d forgotten that they were still at work, in the middle of a pebble-ceilinged office, standing under the least romantic lighting possible. Eames looks… well-kissed, with reddened lips and mussed hair. Arthur is pretty sure that he looks equally disheveled.

Eames is the first to break the silence. “So,” he says, pulling his head back to look Arthur in the eye, “does this mean I’ve sold you on Whitman?”

“What? No, I still think he’s a pretentious, self-indulgent twat.”

“Ah.”

“ _However_ , he’s right that there’s no moment like the present. Note, by the way, that I was able to convey that idea in a mere six words, as opposed to thirty thousand.”

“Oh, Arthur. I’ll turn you into a romantic yet.”

Arthur’s nose wrinkles. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

Eames kisses him softly, almost affectionately. “Don’t worry, I’m not.”

“Anyway,” Arthur says, reluctantly pulling away, “I just came here to do that. Because it seemed like we were waiting for it to happen.”

“I think all of Chicago was waiting for it to happen, darling.”

Arthur quirks a smile as Eames ducks down to retrieve his bag and slings it over his shoulder. Eames opens the door and guides Arthur out with a gentle hand at the small of his back. Before he turns to head toward the elevator, he gives Arthur’s hip a squeeze. “I have everything planned for tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at six?”

“You don’t know where I live.”

“You can text me your address.”

“I don’t have your phone number.”

“Oh, I got yours from Mal at brunch the other day.”

“You have _brunch_ with _Mal_?”

Eames grins over his shoulder as he walks away. “French women love me, Arthur!”

Arthur watches Eames disappear into the elevator with what he’s sure is an idiotic smile on his face, but for the moment, he doesn’t much care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, the date! Any Chicagoans want to offer suggestions? Because I haven't actually planned any of it yet.


	12. The Date, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames picks Arthur up for their date.

It’s 5:45pm, and Arthur has no idea what to wear. Eames wasn’t exactly forthcoming with details about the evening’s plans; he’d texted Arthur asking for his address, and when Arthur had provided it and asked where they would be going, he’d responded, “its a surprise! ;-)” Arthur hadn’t pressed matters, but now he finds himself standing in front of his closet at a complete loss. 

He’s pretty sure Eames wouldn’t take him anywhere that would require a suit, but he also doesn’t want to dress like a slob (which, okay, by Arthur’s standards means “shirt without buttons”). Eventually he settles for his best jeans (where “best” means “most flattering from behind”) and a dark button-down. Hopefully Eames isn’t taking him to the beach. Or on a Segway tour, for that matter — not because Arthur would be inappropriately dressed but because he wouldn’t be caught dead in public wearing a bike helmet and a fluorescent safety vest.

The doorbell rings as Arthur is triple-checking his hair in the mirror; when he answers the door, he’s relieved to see that Eames is similarly attired, in khakis and a vintage-looking polo shirt that’s only a mildly horrifying shade of yellow. The cuffs on the sleeves are doing rather lovely things to his biceps. 

“Come on in,” Arthur says, “I just need to grab my keys and stuff.”

Eames grunts an affirmative and steps into the apartment. As Arthur gathers his things, Eames looks around the living room, tapping the fingers of his right hand rapidly against his thigh. “This is a nice flat. D’you have the whole floor?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says as he slips his wallet into a pocket, “and the attic’s been converted into a loft — that’s where my bedroom is.”

“Ah,” Eames says, still tapping away. “Have you lived in Lakeview long?”

“Since I moved to Chicago a few years ago. It’s pretty quiet this far from Belmont, if you don’t count the sound of frat guys playing cornhole on Sunday afternoons.”

Eames looks at Arthur as though he’s said something obscene. “The _what_?”

“What, frat guys playing cornhole?”

“Is that some sort of… euphemism?”

Arthur laughs. “No, no, it’s the game with the beanbags.”

“Oh.” Eames looks relieved. “That’s a terrible name.”

“It’s a little unfortunate, yeah.”

Eames chuckles, but it sounds… strange. Forced, somehow. Arthur looks him over: his left hand is shoved in his pocket, and he’s shifting his weight from side to side. His gaze is darting around the apartment, occasionally landing on Arthur but immediately diverting to something else. His fingers are still drumming out a beat on his thigh, and he keeps clearing his throat quietly.

“Are you… _nervous_?” Arthur asks, incredulously.

Eames sighs, collapsing inward slightly. He finally looks Arthur in the face, and his expression is equal parts embarrassed and accusatory. “You can be very intimidating, you know! With your suits, and your arse, and your razor-sharp wit.”

This time it’s Arthur’s turn to be confused. “My what?”

“Oh, sorry, your ‘ _ass_ ,’” Eames says, exaggerating a tight American vowel.

“No, my— my _razor-sharp wit_? Are you making fun of me again?”

Eames squints at him. “Arthur. Has nobody ever told you that you’re funny?”

“Mostly people tell me I take things too seriously.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, love. Some of the funniest people are also the most serious.”

“Well…” Arthur shrugs. “Anyway, you’re… you! It doesn’t make sense for _you_ to be nervous.”

“Ah, but you forget—“

“Yes, I know, you ‘contain multitudes.’” Arthur infuses his air quotes with as much light-hearted derision as he can manage. 

“Come to think of it, though, I felt _very_ confident after your visit last night.”

“Did you.”

Eames nods sagely. “It’s possible that your lips contain some sort of magic anxiety-fighting chemical.”

Arthur leans forward and plants a kiss on Eames’s mouth. “How’s that?”

“Mm, better, although I may need to top up throughout the evening.”

“Speaking of which, can you tell me where we’re going yet?”

“Well, first we’re going to have dinner.”

“‘First’?”

“Of course.” Eames makes an offended face. “You didn’t think I’d be some sort of date slacker, did you?”

“Heaven forbid,” Arthur says dryly. “Fine, where are we going?”

“You, my impatient dear, will just have to wait and see.” Eames opens the door and ushers Arthur out. “My car is parked just down the block.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to update relatively frequently with snippets of date, as opposed to posting one mammoth date chapter.


	13. The Date, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date continues.

Eames drives a very old purple Volkswagen. _Well_ , Arthur thinks as Eames slams on the brakes for the tenth time, _perhaps “drive” is the wrong term._ He seems to have trouble remembering which side of the street he should be on, and from the way he reacts to stop signs, you would think they were randomly popping out of the sidewalks like silhouettes of criminals in a police training scenario. By the time they judder into a parking spot at the lakefront, Arthur has one hand braced on the ceiling and the other in a white-knuckled grip on the door handle.

“Here we are,” Eames announces, ratcheting up the parking brake.

“Jesus Christ, Eames,” Arthur pants, “was that your first time behind the wheel of a motor vehicle?” He opens the door and tumbles out onto the pavement, barely resisting the urge to kiss the ground.

“Oh, I know,” Eames remarks, from the other side of the car. “I’m absolute rubbish at driving. Can’t seem to get used to everything being backwards.”

Arthur stands on unsteady legs and glares at Eames over the car’s rusty roof. “I am never getting into the passenger seat of a car with you again.”

“What if I’m in the passenger seat as well?” Eames raises a lascivious eyebrow.

Arthur is still too close to his brush with death to give that remark the eyeroll it deserves. “Give me your keys. Right now.”

“All right, darling, but you realize this means you can’t get hammered.” Eames tosses Arthur the keys, and grabs a bag from the back seat before locking the car and joining Arthur at the curb.

He leads Arthur down to the water, and selects a bench under the canopy of a large maple tree. He gestures for Arthur to sit, then settles down next to him. Reaching into his bag, he pulls out two parcels wrapped in white paper, and hands one to Arthur; the parcel is heavy and cool, and the paper is translucent in places where grease has begun to soak through. “What is this?” Arthur asks.

“Sandwiches from the Italian deli near my flat. Blood orange or lemon?” Eames holds up two bottles of soda.

Arthur grabs the lemon soda and unwraps his sandwich; it’s impressively massive, laden with thinly-sliced meat and fresh mozzarella. He gets his mouth around as much of it as he can and takes a bite.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he says, once he’s managed to chew and swallow. “Whoever invented cured meats was a fucking _genius_.” Eames says something through his mouth full of food that is presumably an agreement.

Stuffing their faces takes precedence over talking for a while; they sit side by side, sipping their sodas and occasionally making sounds of enjoyment muffled by partially-chewed sandwich. When Arthur reaches the end of his, he lets out a satisfied sigh and rubs his stomach appreciatively. Tilting his head back, he closes his eyes and says, “So. This was your big romantic date idea? Sandwiches on a park bench?”

Eames finishes swallowing the last bite of his sandwich. “Are you not enjoying it?”

Arthur assumes the question is rhetorical, but when he turns to look at Eames he realizes that he looks slightly concerned. “No! No, I mean yes, it’s great. I love… sandwiches.” Arthur cringes at his own awkwardness. “I just meant. You know, what with your whole… thing, I was expecting a candlelit dinner in a French restaurant.”

“Would you _rather_ be having a candlelit dinner in a French restaurant?”

Arthur shudders at the thought of a violinist serenading them at a tiny table. “God, no.”

“Well, then, there you go. It wouldn’t be very romantic of me to just drag you along somewhere with the goal of impressing you, would it?”

“I… guess not.”

“And anyway, the evening is young. Maybe I’m easing you into the romance. For all you know, my flat is currently strewn with rose petals.”

“Strewn?” Arthur scoffs. “Anyone can strew. I’ll accept no less than rose petals arranged to form a portrait of me. A _flattering_ portrait of me.”

“Noted,” Eames says with amusement.

“Where _do_ you live, anyway?”

“Oh, you know. Everywhere and nowhere.” At Arthur’s unimpressed look, Eames amends his answer. “Andersonville.”

“Andersonville? Really?”

“Why is that surprising?”

“Well, for one thing you’re not a lesbian. Or Swedish.”

“I could be Swedish.”

“ _Are_ you Swedish?”

“Not to my knowledge. But I quite like Swedish pancakes. And Swedish meatballs.”

“So what you’re saying is that I should take you to IKEA for our next date.”

“Arthur! Our first date has barely begun and you’re already planning our second one? I’m flattered.”

Arthur flushes and mutters, “Maybe I just need some novelty ice cube trays,” although inside he’s silently cursing himself. Eames is right; they’re barely an hour into their first date — a date that Arthur agreed to after months of stewing in _dislike_ for Eames — and Arthur is already acting like they’re in a relationship. Because that’s what Arthur does: he _commits_. He may be indecisive, but the flip side is that once he makes a decision he _sticks with it_. He blames his parents, for having a happy marriage and never moving when he was a child. Maybe if someone had thrown a plate at the wall once in a while, or he’d been uprooted and relocated to Tanzania in the middle of the school year, he’d be better at taking things as they come.

A heavy arm around his shoulders drags him out of his self-reprobation. “Darling,” Eames says, “I’ve been chasing you for _months_. Of course we’re going on a second date.”

Arthur bites his lip and doesn’t respond, but he lets Eames drag him in until his head is resting on a bulky shoulder.

“And,” Eames adds, “you don’t strike me as the sort of man who requires that his ice cubes be shaped like flowers.” Arthur huffs out a laugh and rests a hand on Eames’s leg; Eames puts his hand atop the stack.

July in Chicago is generally pretty awful, but sometimes in the evenings, when the sun’s heat is starting to fade and gentle winds stir up the thick air, it can feel almost idyllic. This is one of those evenings; the breeze coming in off the lake is ruffling Arthur’s hair (which he decided to leave product-free), and Eames is a warm presence beside him, around him. In the background, cars are speeding by on Lake Shore Drive, children are playing frisbee, people are whistling after their dogs — but Arthur is content to focus on Eames’s reassuring solidity and the sound of waves lapping at concrete as they watch the late sunlight glint off the lake.

The marina is full of boats bobbing in the water, and Arthur and Eames begin discussing the names painted on the sides of the vessels, arguing about which of them are good and which are laughably bad. Arthur likes “The Paradox”; Eames likes “The Siren’s Call.” They both think that “Princess Katie” is terrible, although Eames thinks it’s worse if Katie is the owner of the boat and Arthur thinks it’s worse if Katie is the significant other of the owner of the boat. (They agree that daughter is the best-case scenario.) There’s a consensus that the owner of “Big Spender” is compensating for _at least_ one shortcoming.

Eventually, after a long while of silently watching the hypnotizing sway of the boats’ masts, Eames kisses Arthur’s temple and stands up. Brushing the crumbs off his lap, he announces, “It’s time for Phase Two of Operation Show Arthur a Good Time!”

“What’s ‘phase two’?” Arthur asks, standing and stretching the muscles that aren’t used to staying still for so long.

“Still a surprise.”

“You realize I’m driving us there.”

“I’ll direct you to the appropriate intersection.”

Arthur tosses the wrappings from their dinner into a nearby trash can. “Fine. But I’m warning you, I’d better not have to put on a fluorescent safety vest.”

Eames looks confused, then thoughtful, then disappointed. “I’m trying to think of a way to make that sexy, and I’m failing.”

“My point exactly,” Arthur says, taking Eames’s hand. “C’mon, I’ll show you what actual driving looks like.”


	14. The Date, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phase Two of Operation Show Arthur a Good Time.

Eames directs Arthur back to Lakeview, where they manage to find a parking spot on a side street. He leads Arthur to a small, nondescript door at the side of a building, which he gives three confident knocks. The small window embedded in the door opens, and a man’s face appears. “Password?”

Eames says, “Specificity.”

The door opens, and the man gestures for them to enter. Eames strides in, apparently accustomed to this strange scenario, and Arthur trails after him. He follows Eames down a dimly-lit hallway. At the end of the hallway they begin descending a stairway. Arthur can see a steel security door lurking in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs.

“Um, Eames?” Arthur says quietly. “Are you… taking me to a sex club?”

Eames laughs. “Not quite, love. A sex club’s really more of a third date thing, don’t you think?”

“Then where the fuck _are_ we?”

“You’re very impatient, aren’t you.”

“When it looks like I’m being led somewhere to be murdered, yeah.”

“There will be no death tonight, Arthur.”

“Really?” Arthur asks, feeling emboldened by the darkness. “Not even a little one?”

Eames, who had been reaching for the handle of the steel door, looks at Arthur in delighted surprise. “I love it when you’re unexpectedly naughty,” he says, crowding Arthur against the wall. “Especially when it involves French puns.”

A kiss that tastes like salami probably shouldn’t be so hot, Arthur thinks, but Eames’s lips are soft-firm against his, and Eames’s hands are cradling his head, protecting it from the concrete wall, and Arthur has been thinking about this since the moment they parted the previous night. And this time they’re only a few hours away from the end of their date, and with the end of the date comes the probable invitation back to one or the other of their apartments, and the thought of that has Arthur squirming in Eames’s hold and nipping desperately at his lower lip.

Until they’re interrupted by the sounds of jazz music and conversation, and someone opening the steel door into Eames’s back.

“Shit, ow,” Eames says, rubbing his nose where it was shoved into Arthur’s cheekbone. Arthur is tempted to reach down and rub the parts of them that got shoved together in a decidedly more pleasant fashion, but… not a sex club, right. _Pull yourself together, Arthur_.

“Oh! Uh…sorry?” says the woman who just walked through the doorway, looking confused.

“No worries, our fault,” Eames calls after her, although she doesn’t seem to care as she clomps up the stairs. He turns to Arthur, a twinkle in his eye. “Not a great location for snogging, apparently.”

“Apparently. And I want to know what’s on the other side of that door. I’m assuming Phase Two doesn’t consist of making out in a creepy basement stairwell.”

“Not entirely. Come on, let’s go in.”

Arthur blinks as they enter the next room. They’re in a bar, but it’s not a normal bar. It’s like the doorway was a portal into the 1920s; the aforementioned jazz music is winding through the room, which is ringed in low velvet couches and dotted liberally with plush ottomans, in sumptuous shades of red and brown. Wall sconces and chandeliers cast a warm, dim glow around the room; in the mirrored walls, the points of light seem to multiply infinitely. There’s gold leaf _everywhere_. A set of high-backed stools are lined up at the bar, where a man with an ironic mustache is mixing drinks with a flourish. If not for the patrons wearing modern-day clothing as they engage in low conversations, Arthur might think he was dreaming.

“Holy shit, Eames, is this a _speakeasy_?” he says, boggling.

“It is!” Eames steers Arthur to the bar by an elbow. “What’s your booze of choice, darling?”

“If I’m in a speakeasy, I think I have to go with gin.”

“A whiskey sour for me, and a Tom Collins for my handsome companion,” Eames says to the bartender, who gives a sharp nod and begins grabbing bottles.

Arthur asks, “Do you have ice cubes shaped like flowers?” and Eames bursts out laughing. The bartender does not look amused. “Um, standard cube-shaped ice will be fine,” Arthur adds.

When they have their drinks, they claim a couch in a quiet corner,

“So, how the hell did you find out about this place?”

“I have my finger on the pulse of Chicago, Arthur. Surely you already knew that.”

“Right.” Arthur raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Fine, I read about it on Yelp. It’s not actually all that secret, you just need to pay a membership fee.”

“That sounds more like it,” Arthur remarks, taking a sip of his drink. It’s cool and slightly sweet and exactly what he wanted after sitting outside for a couple of hours.

“I’ve never really been one for normal bars, with the noisy crowds and the big-screen tellies. I much prefer being able to sit back and people-watch.”

“Scoping out potential hook-ups?” Arthur half-jokes, running his finger around the rim of his glass.

“No, that’s what work is for,” Eames quips in response. “But no, it’s the actor in me. I like to observe other people — their mannerisms, the way they carry themselves. It comes in handy when I have to become someone else.”

“Do you think you’ll go back to acting eventually?”

Eames looks thoughtful. “I don’t know. I like where I am right now. But I do miss it, sometimes. Being up on stage, feeling like you’re the only person on Earth even though you know hundreds of people are watching you at that very moment.”

“Why did you quit it?”

“I didn’t realize you aspired to be Barbara Walters, love.”

“Sorry,” Arthur says, blushing. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“No, it’s all right. I suppose the long answer is that I realized I’d been acting since I was nineteen, and had never done anything else. I needed to sow my wild oats, so to speak. See what else there was in the world.”

“And what’s the short answer?”

“My mother died and I needed to get away for a while.” Eames looks down at his drink, swirls it around.

“I’m… sorry,” Arthur says, feeling like he’s somehow wound up in the middle of a minefield. “Is your father still living?”

Eames shrugs. “Could be. I haven’t a clue.”

…And Arthur has just stepped on one of the mines. “I— That— Oh, for christ’s sake, this is so unbelievably awkward.”

Eames chuckles, giving Arthur a genuine smile. “Nothing too traumatic, just your standard ‘boy raised by overworked single mother craves attention, becomes actor’ story.”

“Do you have any siblings? And if you say that you did but they were tragically killed in some sort of, I don’t know, bowling accident, I’m just going to give up and go home.”

Eames’s chuckle becomes a full-throated laugh. “No, no siblings. How about you?”

“I have a younger sister,” Arthur says. “Megan. She’s a consultant. She lives in New Jersey with her husband and kid.”

“Is that where you’re from? New Jersey?”

“Rhode Island, actually.”

“I confess I have no idea where that is.”

“I’m pretty sure most Americans have no idea where it is. Or that it isn’t an island.”

“Then why would they call it that?!”

Arthur shrugs. “A mystery for the ages.”

“And how about you, have you always wanted to be an anchor?”

“Since I was eight.” Arthur smiles nostalgically. “Before that, I wanted to be an architect. I’m pretty sure I just had too many Legos.”

Arthur slowly nurses his drink while he tells Eames about his family, about how they would sit together and watch the evening news, and how Tom Brokaw had seemed like the smartest man in the world. Eames, in turn, tells stories about his trouble-making childhood, about how he hotwired the neighbor’s car when he was fifteen, about how if he hadn’t discovered community theater he would have certainly been in juvie within the year. The stories are funny, and Arthur laughs, but he also feels a strange, unnameable combination of sadness and pride and protectiveness; he’s not sure what to make of it.

After what feels like only a short period of time, Eames checks his watch and announces that it’s time to move on to Phase Three. Arthur looks at his own watch and is surprised to discover that two hours have passed; his empty glass is sitting in a puddle of condensation, and the people around them have all left and been replaced by other people.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what Phase Three is.”

“You’re finally getting the hang of this, darling!”

Arthur shakes his head ruefully and follows Eames out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to VIII_XIII for suggesting a speakeasy for their date!


	15. The Date, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phase Three of Operation Show Arthur a Good Time. The final phase (sort of).

Eames directs Arthur to the northern reaches of the city — nearly to Andersonville, in fact — and once Arthur has maneuvered into a spot on Ashland, they’re off on foot. Arthur’s not sure where they could possibly be going, in the middle of a quiet stretch of residential neighborhood, although Eames has been pretty successful at surprising him so far.

“Phase Three is… waiting in line,” Arthur says as they approach a crowd of people organized in a vaguely line-shaped formation, talking noisily amongst themselves. 

“Phase Three is waiting in line for a show, and then seeing that show.” Eames situates them at the end of the crowd.

“What kind of show starts at 11 o’clock _here_?”

Eames is clearly debating whether he should reveal this information or whether he should hold out until the chorus boys are parading across the stage or the washed-up actress is starting to talk about her drug addiction or the interpretive dancers are starting to seize or whatever the hell is going to happen. Evidently Arthur’s not the only impatient one, because after a moment of contemplation Eames announces, “The Neo-Futurists!” and holds his hands out like he’s just revealed the secrets of the world.

“Oh, wow!” Arthur says, because he can tell that he’s supposed to react with excitement. “Is that a… band?”

“Darling, you are such a fuddy-duddy sometimes.”

“A _fuddy-duddy_? I’m pretty sure using that term makes _you_ a fuddy-duddy.” 

“Fine, we can be fuddy-duddies together. Fuddies-duddy?”

“Anyway. What are the Neo-whatevers?”

“The Neo-Futurists. They’re a theater troupe. They perform thirty plays in an hour.”

“Where do you even hear about these things?”

“They’re a _Chicago institution_ , Arthur.”

“Are you secretly a hipster? _Oh my god,_ are you _normcore_? Is _that_ what the deal is with your clothes?”

“You’re very hung up on my clothing for some reason.”

“Unlike your clothing, which appears to have never been hung up.”

They continue arguing for a bit about Eames’s clothes, and then about the term Neo-Futurist (Arthur argues that it’s either redundant or impossible, and Eames argues that if you can have postmodernism you can have neofuturism), and then about why Eames didn’t preorder tickets (“Because then you miss out on the authentic waiting-in-line experience!” “Like how vaccines prevent you from having the ‘authentic whooping cough experience’?”). They’re just getting into the merits of Western medicine (although Arthur suspects Eames is just trying to wind him up at this point) when a voice behind them pipes up, “Excuse me, are you Arthur Lake and Eames?”

They turn around to find two college-aged girls in enormous glasses looking up at them.

“Guilty as charged!” Eames says, winking at them. 

“We’re really huge fans of yours!” one of the girls says.

“Could we get a picture with you guys?” the other one asks.

Eames happily agrees, ignoring the look Arthur shoots his way. He grabs the proffered phone and holds it at arm’s length, standing next to the girls; at his coaxing, Arthur gets into the frame, on the girls’ opposite side. He plasters on a smile, there’s a flash, and then the girls are thanking them effusively and disappearing back into the crowd.

Arthur tries to keep some space between Eames and himself after that; he doesn’t relish the idea of photos of the two of them clearly on a date taking the internet by storm. Playful speculation is fine, but he’d prefer not to provide material proof. He’s habitually private about his personal life — not because he’s ashamed of being gay, or any bullshit like that, just… a news anchor is supposed to be a neutral figure, and the American public doesn’t see gay people as “neutral.” Sure, if you’ve been a newscaster for decades and you’re a silver fox and your mother is Gloria Fucking Vanderbilt, maybe you can come out then, but Arthur holds no illusions about the consequences that being known as “that gay news anchor” would have on his career right now. So he doesn’t _hide_ it — he’s not closeted or anything, his family and friends know, he doesn’t wear sunglasses and a fake mustache to gay bars — but he certainly doesn’t make any effort to shout it from the rooftops.

At 11 o’clock, the line starts moving, and the crowd’s excitement increases palpably. When Arthur and Eames get to the door, a tall red-haired woman gives them each a die to roll, whereupon she announces how much their tickets will cost. As Eames pays, another woman, short and dark-skinned and brandishing a marker and a roll of name stickers, asks them their names; when they answer, she scribbles something and then slaps stickers on their chests. Arthur’s sticker says “ENNUI.” Eames’s says “X-RAY VISION.”

“Eames,” Arthur mutters out of the side of his mouth, “If this show is a bunch of theater majors talking about their genitals as though they’re sentient, I’m out.”

“I can’t promise there won’t be any plays about their genitals, but if there is one, it’ll only be two minutes long.”

They file into the theater and take seats in the back row, although the room is small enough that they’re still within spitting distance of the performance floor. (Arthur doubts that will become relevant, but with a name like “The Neo-Futurists,” who the hell knows?) There’s a clothesline strung across the stage, with pieces of paper numbered one through thirty hanging from it; apparently the audience is supposed to shout out numbers whenever one of the “plays” ends, and that determines which one will be performed next.

Eventually the lights go down and the buzzing of the audience fades to silence. Eames clasps Arthur’s hand in his, and he doesn’t let go until thirty plays later.

***

“So?” Eames asks once they’re back outside. It’s nearly one in the morning and the air is pleasantly cool, though still humid enough that Arthur can feel it on his skin.

“I thought it was… pretty good, actually.”

“Pretty good, eh?”

“Whatever. It held my attention and I didn’t cringe in vicarious embarrassment for anyone.”

“I know that from you this is the equivalent of fulsome praise, so I won’t beleaguer the point.”

Arthur smiles to himself. “I have to say, Eames, this was quite the elaborate evening. I’m impressed.”

“Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur.”

“I wasn’t trying to be—“

“I know, darling, I know.”

Something in Arthur threatens to break at the sudden compassion in Eames’s voice, so he clears his throat and does what he does best: redirects. “I’m not sure how I’ll be able to compete.”

“Well,” Eames says, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk, “you’re going to have to try, because I blew all of my ideas in one go for tonight.”

“That’s just poor planning! You could have chosen any one of the three ‘phases’ and it would have been enough.”

“I didn’t know if I’d have a second chance to impress you,” Eames says softly.

Arthur doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he hip-checks Eames and steals the pebble from him.

***

Once they’re back in the car, Arthur situated safely behind the wheel, an awkward silence falls. This is clearly the point at which they need to decide where they’re going next and whether it will be together, but Arthur is waiting for Eames to broach the topic, and he suspects that Eames is doing precisely the opposite. 

Eventually he decides to take the indirect approach. “So. You live in Andersonville, huh?”

“Yes…”

“And we’re basically in Andersonville right now.”

Eames plays along, nodding as though this is new information. “My flat is a few blocks away, actually.”

“That’s interesting.”

Eames drums his fingers on the window. “Would you like to… come by and see my etchings?”

“Do you even have to ask? Of course I’d like to. We’ve been leading up to it all week.”

Eames laughs, although it sounds more relieved than mirthful. “Well, there’s a difference between joking about something and meaning it seriously.”

“Eames.” Arthur waits until Eames is looking him in the eye. “We’ve already established that I take things _very_ seriously.”

“Then I’ll tell you which way to go.” Eames grins as Arthur starts the car.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Neo-Futurists' show, Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, is in fact really cool.


	16. Late-Breaking News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur goes to Eames's apartment to check out his etchings.

“You really do have etchings,” Arthur comments, standing in the hallway of Eames’s apartment. Eames lives in a carriage house behind an old Victorian walk-up; it’s cozy, filled with mismatched furniture and stacks of books. 

“Of course,” Eames shouts from the kitchen. “Red or white?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“I’m having white because it’s still too bloody hot out!”

“That’s fine. Shit, is this a real Dürer?”

“Don’t tell me you majored in art history, too,” Eames says, walking out of the kitchen and handing Arthur a glass of wine. “Yes, that’s a real Dürer.”

“No, but I took a couple of courses. The professor was hot. Did you _buy_ this?”

“Ah… in a manner of speaking, yes.”

Arthur pauses, takes a sip of his wine, trying to figure out how to phrase his next question. “Eames, did you… rob a museum?”

Eames laughs. “No, no, nothing like that. It was a gift from a bloke I dated a long time ago. He was an art collector.”

Arthur lets out a low whistle. “You must be a fucking _wizard_ in bed.”

“Would you like to see my wizard’s staff?” Eames waggles his eyebrows.

“Oh my god, Eames, that’s the worst line I’ve ever heard. I can’t believe I ever thought you were a smooth-talker.”

“I can be a smooth-talker.” 

“Oh yeah?” Arthur raises a challenging eyebrow. “Prove it.”

Eames silently reaches out to take Arthur’s wine glass, and places both their glasses on the side table. Slowly, he goes to stand behind Arthur, his chest barely grazing Arthur’s shoulderblades, and leans his head forward to speak quietly into Arthur’s ear. 

“Since that night on the roof, I haven’t gone an hour without thinking about taking you to bed.”

Arthur inhales sharply, finding himself abruptly dizzy.

“I’ve been wondering what you’ll be like,” Eames continues. “Whether you’ll be as meticulous and focused as you are at work. Or whether you’ll be pliant and lost.”

“Which—”  Arthur swallows. “Which one did you settle on?”

“I think… both of them. All of them.”

“Fucking hell,” Arthur breathes, before turning around and pulling Eames toward him. 

***

The thing about Eames is that Arthur had always assumed being attracted to someone — being _really_ attracted to them — meant wanting to rip their clothes off and fuck them on the nearest available surface. True love may wait, in other words, but true lust says “don’t even bother taking your pants off, just unzip the fly.”

The thing about Eames is that although he makes Arthur cross-eyed with arousal, although Arthur wants to sleep with him as much as he’s ever wanted to sleep with anyone, there isn’t that same sense of urgency. As Eames leads Arthur to the bedroom, Arthur feels strangely patient, almost serene. At the same time that he’s desperate to touch and be touched, he feels like they have all the time in the world. 

***

Arthur went skydiving once, with some friends in college. He barely slept the night before, tossing and turning with visions of tangled parachutes floating (rather, _not_ floating) through his head. When they got to the airfield his hand was shaking so much he could barely sign the waiver. Then his instructor suited him up in a harness and dragged him into a rickety little prop plane, and… suddenly he was fine. This was going to happen. He didn’t even have a choice in the matter; he was literally attached to someone who was going to jump out of an airplane. It was inevitable.

So he calmly looked out the open cargo door as the plane picked up speed, watched the ground get further and further away until the trees were little specks and he could see the mountains in the distance, and when his instructor gave him the signal they moved to the door, Arthur sitting on the instructor’s lap, and they toppled out into nothingness.

Arthur remembers freefall, but what he remembers about it is that it was almost _soothing_ — the world reduced to the rush of wind in his ears and the ground looking impossibly far away.

***

The thing about Eames is that knowing it’s going to happen means Arthur can enjoy the process of getting there.

The thing about Eames is that he’s warm and soft and broad and hard and smooth and rough. 

The thing about Eames is that he reduces the world to lips and hands and tongues on sweat-slick skin.

The thing about Eames is that he feels inevitable.

***

It’s too warm to cuddle afterwards, so they settle for knocking elbows and ankles together while they lie on top of the sheets, letting the slight breeze from the ceiling fan dry the sweat from their skin. 

Eames reaches out a hand and twists a lock of Arthur’s hair between his fingers. “I like your hair like this.”

“It’s a little out of control,” Arthur complains.

“Exactly.” Eames brushes Arthur’s hair off his forehead, then brushes it back down. “You’re staying, right?”

“If you want me to.”

“I do.”

***

Arthur wakes up to the smell of things frying and the sound of movement elsewhere in the apartment. He wriggles in the sheets and stretches, taking a moment to enjoy the pleasant soreness in his limbs before he sits up.

Eames has left a pair of sweatpants out for him; they’re (unsurprisingly) a bit too big for him, but he pulls the drawstring as tight as he can and lets them hang low on his hips. After a much-needed detour to the bathroom, he trudges into the kitchen, where Eames is at the stove, wearing running shorts and brandishing a spatula. He seems to have two frying pans and a saucepan going simultaneously.

“That smells really good.”

Eames turns away from the stove with a delighted expression. “Good morning, gorgeous,” he says, pulling Arthur in for a kiss. “Fresh coffee in the carafe on the counter. I’m almost done here.” He grabs a couple of eggs from an open carton and cracks them single-handedly into one of the frying pans. 

Arthur perches on a stool at the bar and sips his coffee while he watches Eames finish cooking. More specifically, he watches the muscles in Eames’s back ripple and flex as he moves around the kitchen, stirring things and adjusting the levels of the burners and mumbling things to himself about timing. Before long, Eames has grabbed two plates out of a cabinet and is loading them both down with food.

“I promised you a full English breakfast, and I am a man of my word,” Eames says, putting a plate before Arthur with a flourish. 

“Are those… beans? For breakfast?”

“Yes, of course. Beans and toast, a British staple.”

“And mushrooms?”

“Yes.”

“And bacon _and_ sausage?”

“Absolutely.”

“And… half a tomato? Seriously, did you just empty out a bunch of random leftovers onto a plate?”

Eames tsks. “I’ll have you know this is a _canonical_ English breakfast. The only thing I left out was black pudding, and that’s because I want you to sleep with me again someday.”

“What’s black— actually, never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“You really don’t.”

Cutlery poised cautiously above the food, Arthur remarks, “You realize there’s no way I’m going to be up for more sex after eating all of this.”

The plate vanishes. Arthur looks up to see Eames stowing it on a counter. 

“…Sex first, then breakfast. It’ll reheat.”

“Will it?” Arthur wrinkles his nose.

“Do you care?” Eames asks, stepping between Arthur’s knees and putting his hands on Arthur’s waist.

“Mm, no,” Arthur manages, as Eames’s lips find their way to the sensitive spot under his jaw. “I can eat cold eggs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The date that wouldn't end has finally ended! I'm pretty sure at least half of the ~20K words I've written for this fic so far were used on the date.


	17. Continuing Coverage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in the Eames Era.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long -- writer's block, you know how it goes. I struggled with this chapter and I'm not entirely satisfied with it, but I'm ready to move on with the plot!

Life doesn’t change all that much A.E. (“After Eames,” as Arthur has begun to think of it). Arthur tries to keep things relatively professional in the office; he sits on the other side of the room from Eames during staff meetings, and they don’t so much as hold hands when coworkers are around. Dinner between the early and late broadcasts usually consists of either Arthur or Eames grabbing some takeout and the two of them sharing it in Arthur’s dressing room. This has always been the major downside of Arthur’s work schedule: when you’re in the office until midnight most days, romantic dinners can be hard to come by. On the other hand, at a restaurant you generally get kicked out if you try to have sex halfway through your meal, so there are some upsides to the dressing room’s lack of ambience.

Arthur’s not sure how well his dressing room is sound-proofed, but he hasn’t had any complaints (or compliments) from the occupants of the neighboring offices so far.

The diffusion of the sexual tension means that Arthur and Eames’s banter is back to a PG level. Eames still teases, and Arthur still rolls his eyes, and Dom still emerges from the production booth at the end of each broadcast with a shit-eating grin and some hackneyed line from the “How to Praise Your Anchors” unit of News Production 101, but it turns out that Arthur is slightly less irritable when he’s regularly treated to the sight of Eames’s lips wrapped around his cock.

The whole thing just feels strangely _easy_ to Arthur. He’s used to relationships being stressful and filled with anxiety: about the other person’s feelings for you, about your feelings for the other person, about the state of the relationship and where it’s come from and where it’s going, about why you always have to stay at _his_ place and does your place smell funny or something and should you leave your dirty laundry at his place for him to deal with or should you put it in a grocery bag and bring it home with you.

But he likes Eames, and Eames makes no bones (well, one generous, euphemistic bone) about liking him too. It’s that simple. If you ignore the fact that, what with the working together and the “public figures” thing and the internet fandom, the actual situation is more complex than any other relationship Arthur’s been in.

***

Arthur knows there’s no way he can live up to the precedent Eames set for their first date, so he doesn’t even try. Instead of searching out the most obscure of Chicago’s hidden gems, he goes in the opposite direction; although he’s been living in Chicago for a few years, he hasn’t done most of the really touristy stuff, so he takes Eames to the Art Institute. 

Eames, of course, likes the old masters, so Arthur humors him as they wander through the European Art galleries, Eames murmuring to himself (and occasionally to Arthur) about the luminosity of this portrait, the skill with which the dappled light was depicted in that landscape.

“God, look at the shading on her face,” Eames says, gesturing toward a painting of an unimpressed-looking woman holding a pitcher. “He must have used dozens of layers of glazing to achieve that kind of depth.”

“Mm,” Arthur agrees, nodding in agreement.

“You’re not even looking at it,” Eames complains. “You’re staring at my arse.”

“Sorry, is that not what you were talking about? I heard something about depth. And glazing.”

“We can talk about my arse later. Right now there are Vermeers to be seen!”

About a hundred indistinguishable portraits of noblemen later, Arthur finally gets to drag Eames to the Paul Klee exhibit in the Modern Wing. It turns out dragging is unnecessary, because Eames manages to be the kind of annoying person who appreciates modern _and_ classical art. He’s cooing over Klee’s apparently tremendously clever use of color when the PA system broadcasts the 15-minutes-til-closing announcement.

They get hot dogs from a stand in Millennium Park and then they walk up Michigan Avenue, dodging shopping-bag-laden tourists on the Magnificent Mile. The sun is starting to set and most of the people are bustling home or heading to parts of the city with real nightlife. Arthur and Eames go against the tide, wandering into a few of the stores. Arthur convinces Eames to buy a skinny tie at Burberry, proclaiming his normal extra-wide ties “tragic.” Eames makes Arthur try on a shooting jacket in Barbour and gives him a look so smoldering that it probably would have set the jacket on fire, if the jacket weren’t flameproof as well as waterproof, stain-proof, rip-proof, and probably radiation-proof. 

To top off their touristy evening, they have drinks in the lounge at the top of the Hancock Tower. The drinks are overpriced, of course, but it’s worth it for the view. Their table faces west, and if they look toward the left they can see the Loop, its cluster of office buildings encircled by the river, and the Sears Tower (Arthur staunchly refuses to call it the Willis Tower, except when he’s on the air) looming over it all. To the right, they can see the northwestern neighborhoods laid out in grids, and beyond that the suburbs stretching out into invisible sprawl.

“Do you like Chicago?” Eames asks as they look out on the sparkling city.

Arthur thinks for a moment. “I do,” he says, after a pause. “I don’t know that I’d want to live here for the rest of my life, but it’s a good city.”

“Why not for the rest of your life?”

“Well, for one thing, the winters make me want to curl up and die.”

“They’re really that bad?”

“They’re really that bad. And for another thing… I’m not exactly hoping I’ll still have this job in ten years.”

“You have your sights set on bigger and better things?”

“Bigger and better markets, at least. What about you? Do you like Chicago?”

“I think I do. I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere else in my adult life, at least.”

“Really? Haven’t you only been here for four months?”

“I suppose I’ve lived a bit of a nomadic life. When I was a stage actor I was always traveling. I have a hard time settling down.”

“So… No long-term relationships, then?” Arthur fiddles with his cocktail stirrer, poking ice cubes around in his nearly-empty glass.

“Not as such, no,” Eames says, with a shrug. “Historically, I have a tendency to… ah, cut and run when things get difficult.”

“Ah.” Arthur focuses on twisting tiny bits off his cocktail napkin. “Well. Historically, I’ve been told I have a tendency to be difficult.”

A warm hand stills his fidgeting, and he looks up to see Eames gazing at him with a concerned expression. “Darling, I have no intention of doing that this time.”

“Why is this time any different?”

“Because you’re the _good_ kind of difficult,” Eames replies, matter-of-factly.

Arthur lets go of the napkin that had been clenched in his fist, and turns his hand over to quickly squeeze Eames’s palm. They lapse into silence for a while, finishing the dregs of their drinks and watching the toy cityscape outside the windows. Arthur pays the bill and they make their way toward the elevators, and when a couple of women recognize them and reveal themselves to be fans, Arthur and Eames enlist their help to sneak into the women’s bathroom because they overheard someone saying it has a spectacular view from its windows. It does.

Architecture, though, is the farthest thing from Arthur’s mind by the time they clamber out of the cab and onto the sidewalk outside his walk-up. He leads Eames into the apartment and up to the loft, where he proceeds to demonstrate just how difficult he can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Dom and Mal invite Arthur and Eames over for dinner!


	18. On Location

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner at Dom and Mal's house.

Eames gives the plate in Arthur’s hands one last skeptical glance before ringing the doorbell. “Are you _sure_ you want to present them with that? It’s not too late to go to a bakery. I think I saw one around the corner.”

“Shut up,” Arthur says, cradling his cake closer to his chest (although not close enough to get frosting on his shirt). “My cake will be _delicious_.”

“Your cake is _always_ delicious.” Eames waggles his eyebrows.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Arthur says. “This cake in no way resembles a penis.”

“Oh! You should have used my penis cake pan!” Eames exclaims, just as Dom opens the front door of his house.

“I’m not even going to ask why you have a penis cake pan. Hi Dom.” Arthur shoves the plate toward him. “I made a cake.”

Dom squints at the cake skeptically.

“Let me state at the outset that I had nothing to do with the making of this cake,” Eames adds.

“This cake is going to be fucking delicious,” Arthur proclaims.

From behind Dom, Mal’s voice carries out of the house. “Dominick, are you going to let them stand out there all night?” This is followed by the sound of delicate footsteps, and then Dom is unceremoniously elbowed out of way and Mal, looking effortlessly elegant in leggings and what appears to be one of Dom’s button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up, appears in the doorway. She beams at her houseguests. “Hello, my darlings!” After the customary cheek-kissing, she grabs the plate from Arthur’s hands and steps to the side. “Will you come in?”

As Arthur and Eames step into the foyer, she calls up the stairs, “Phillipa! James! Arthur is here!” 

The response to this is an immediate thundering of tiny feet down wooden steps, followed by two tow-headed blurs launching themselves at Arthur’s legs. The taller blur shouts “Arthur!” at the same time that the shorter one yells “Awthuh!” 

“Hey guys,” Arthur says, patting the kids on their heads. Eames is looking at him bemusedly; he shrugs in response.

***

Arthur isn’t typically very good with kids, but he’s spent a fair amount of time with the Cobb kids. He met Dom in college, when he was a sophomore and Dom was a grad student; Arthur worked as a DJ on the school radio station and Cobb wound up being his producer. They’d drifted apart a bit after Arthur graduated, but a few years ago Dom called Arthur with an offer for a reporting job with NBC’s Chicago affiliate.

Dom had been tremendously responsible as a radio producer, so Arthur was surprised when, six months into his new job in Chicago, Dom started showing up to work late, forgetting meetings, and on one memorable occasion even sleeping through a broadcast. When Arthur angrily confronted him, Dom revealed that he and Mal had been in a car accident several weeks prior and she was still in a coma; he said he’d been trying not to let it affect his job, and Mal’s mother had flown in from Paris to help with the kids, but between his grief and worry and the added expenses and effectively being a single parent, he was losing it.

So Arthur stepped up. He covered for Dom’s mistakes at work, and he spent most of his free time at Dom’s house with Phillipa and James, making sure that they felt loved and taken care of. It was exhausting and Dom wasn’t in any condition to show appreciation, but it was all worth it the morning Arthur received an excited and barely coherent call from Dom at the hospital and he got to bring the kids in to see their mother, awake for the first time in four months. 

***

“I hope you like chocolate,” Arthur says, “because I made a chocolate cake.”

James nods with maniacal glee while Phillipa shouts “Yay!”

“What’s that? You _don’t_ like chocolate?” Arthur asks.

“That’s not what we said!” Phillipa yells.

“That’s such a shame. I guess I’ll just have to eat the cake _all by myself_ ,” Arthur continues.

James shrieks “NO!” through his giggles.

“Well, at least _someone_ appreciates my baking.” Arthur gives Eames a pointed look.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the _effort_ , darling. I just wonder whether the effort wouldn’t have been better expended on, for example, walking to one of the many professional pastry peddlers on Belmont.”

“Fu—“ Arthur starts to say, then at Dom’s sharp look he continues, “—orget you, and your… naysaying.”

“It’s just that, in the two months that we’ve been dating, I have never seen you so much as turn on the oven.”

“That’s not—“

“And also, it’s a bit… lopsided.”

“You are going to be eating your words in a few hours, when you try my cake. Except you won’t be able to eat your words, because your mouth will be too full of my delicious cake.”

“James, Phillipa, you remember Monsieur Eames?” Mal nudges them toward Eames, who crouches down and gives them fist bumps. They chorus “Hi Mister Eames” before running off toward the living room.

“Mon cher,” Mal says, grabbing Eames’s arm and steering him toward the kitchen. “Let us leave the boys to barbecue, and you can help me with the salad. Have you heard about Ariadne and Yusuf?”

Arthur can hear Eames exclaim “No!” as he and Mal disappear into the kitchen through the swinging door. He and Dom stand awkwardly in the front room for a few moments, each of them attempting to process the strange relationship between Mal and Eames, before Dom turns on his heels and says, “Grab a couple of beers from the fridge in the garage and meet me out back by the grill.”

When Arthur follows the instructions and heads out to the patio, he finds Dom brandishing a large pair of tongs and wearing one of those mail-order personalized aprons, although whoever got it for him obviously wasn’t very creative because it just says “DOM’S APRON.” It’s possible that Dom ordered it for himself.

There are some foil-wrapped potatoes sizzling away on the periphery of the grill, and Dom is holding a platter with five large, raw steaks. As Dom slings the meat onto the grill, he asks, “How does Eames like his steak cooked?”

“He says medium rare but he secretly prefers it medium well.”

It’s ridiculous, really. It’s one thing to dislike a pink steak — and really, it’s a shame to cook a nice piece of beef until it’s brown, but whatever — and another thing to keep ordering it pink even when you don’t like it. Eames still hasn’t admitted it to Arthur, but Arthur has noticed how Eames eats the well-cooked edges of his steak first, and has a poorly-suppressed look of disgust on his face when he gets to the bloody middle.

Arthur is so caught up in his reverie about Eames’s ordering habits that he doesn’t notice Dom smirking. “So things with Eames are going well, huh?”

Arthur thinks about the past couple of months. For two people who started out hating each other — well, one hating the other, and the other finding it vaguely amusing to be hated — they’ve certainly made the transition to romantic partners very smoothly. Sometimes Arthur worries that things are moving too quickly; they haven’t moved in together or anything, but they’ve been spending almost every night together and several of Arthur’s most expensive suits are currently residing in Eames’s closet (and several of Eames’s most eye-searingly horrifying polyester button-downs are in Arthur’s). But on the other hand, it just feels right, so why be concerned about some arbitrary timeline that other people have decided is “appropriate”?

“I suppose they are,” he says, realizing Dom is waiting for an answer.

“You seem really happy.”

Arthur wouldn’t say he was _unhappy_ before — he’s never been the sort of person who needs a relationship to feel fulfilled — but he’s certainly quicker to smile these days. Then again, that’s because Eames is usually there to make him smile (and roll his eyes, and huff). 

“I suppose I am.”

“He’s good in the sack?”

“Oh my god, Dom, I am not having this conversation with you.”

“I thought we were bros!”

“Okay, _first of all_ , we’re not ‘bros,’ because we are not currently nor were we ever in a fraternity. Second of all, if we _were_ bros, I suspect you wouldn’t want to hear about all the gay sex I’m having.”

“So he _is_ good in the sack.”

“I’m gonna go get another beer.” 

Arthur gets waylaid in the living room by a teary James, who needs Arthur to arbitrate a dispute with Phillipa over who owns a particular doll. Arthur pulls the Solomon trick of offering to cut the doll in half, which results in James keeping the doll and Phillipa’s grudging respect. Arthur’s passing through the dining room when Eames and Mal emerge from the kitchen laughing, each with a glass of wine and Eames carrying a large bowl of salad. Mal, catching sight of Arthur, scolds, “Arthur! You never told me you were such a romantic!”

Arthur looks in confusion to Eames, who explains, “I was just telling her what you said to me in bed last night.”

“Oh my god,” Arthur says, turning red.

“See, Arthur?” Dom has just entered the house from the patio, carrying a plate heaped with steaming food. “ _Eames_ talks to _Mal_ about your sex life.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Arthur repeats, burying his face in his hands.

“I’ll go get the sprogs for dinner,” Eames says cheerfully, heading for the living room.

***

Dinner itself is a low-key affair; despite her French elegance (or perhaps her elegant Frenchness), Mal is a casual hostess, so they’re using paper towels instead of napkins and reaching across the table to grab the salt or another helping of salad is encouraged. Eames and Mal continue to gossip about European supermodels, and Arthur and Dom discuss the latest scandal involving a journalist fabricating sources. While they talk, Arthur and Mal take turns putting small pieces of cut-up steak on Phillipa’s and James’s plates; the kids grab the food with their greasy fingers and gobble it up, circulating their wide-eyed stares around the table from one adult to another.

When everyone has had their fill of dinner and has had some time to digest (Eames happily ate his entire steak, Arthur notes to himself smugly), Arthur escapes to the kitchen and returns bearing his cake. He cuts a comically large slice and dumps it on Eames’s plate. “There you go, _sweetheart_. Enjoy!” He smiles viciously.

Mal clicks her tongue and says “so sweet!” as Eames raises an eyebrow at Arthur. He shears off a microscopically-thin bite with his fork and slowly places it in his mouth, so reluctantly you’d think it were making a ticking noise. As he chews, his second eyebrow rises to join the first, and he’s loading his fork down with a huge chunk of cake before he’s even finished swallowing the first bite.

“I take back every aspersion I ever cast on your cake-baking skills, darling,” he says several minutes later, licking frosting off his thumb. “This is bloody fantastic.”

“I _told_ you I could bake.”

“You did. And I should know by now that when you say you can do something, you can do it.” Eames scrapes some crumbs off his plate with his fork. “I hope you realize this means you’re going to be baking cakes for me for the rest of my life.”

Arthur knows it’s a figure of speech, and a hyperbolic one at that, but nonetheless a half-happy-half-terrified thrill travels through his body at the implication. Eames looks slightly pained, as though he’s just realized he’s revealed too much.

“Sure,” Arthur answers lightly, “but aren’t you worried about spoiling your girlish figure?” And from the way Eames’s gaze catches his, he’s pretty sure Eames knows that what he’s really saying is _I’d bake you a cake every day if it meant I could keep you_. 

Their moment is interrupted by Phillipa’s loud, chocolatey burp, which is quickly followed by Mal’s scolding, although she has to struggle to be heard over James and Dom’s hysterical giggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And THAT is how you end a chapter. With a small girl belching. (mic drop)


	19. Sports Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur takes Eames to a baseball game.

After the sports report one evening, Eames mentions — “banters,” that is — that he’s never been to a baseball game. Arthur decides to rectify this oversight by taking him to a Cubs game.

When Arthur was a kid, going to a Red Sox game was a special family treat, and so he still gets excited whenever he approaches the entry gates of a baseball stadium. Wrigley is a strange, old-fashioned little stadium, rising up out of a city block as though it had been airlifted and dropped into the middle of a residential neighborhood; it’s a nice choice for a first ballgame, he thinks.

He could have gotten much better seats through the network, but sitting in the nosebleed section is a quintessential part of a baseball trip. Besides, they’re in the first row of the upper deck, which in a stadium as small as Wrigley means they’ve got a great view of the field, and it also means that the only people who can see _them_ have a view of the backs of their heads. It’s a bit of unexpected privacy in the midst of a huge crowd.

Once they’ve settled into their seats, Arthur sits back and looks forward to introducing Eames to the joys of baseball.

 

**First Inning**

“What happens if you run the wrong way round?” Eames asks as Arthur tries to flag down a hot dog vendor.

“Why would anyone ever do that?”

“I don’t know, maybe they forgot?”

“Players don’t _forget_ which way to run.”

“But what if they did? Would they score negative points?”

“You know,” Arthur says, exchanging a handful of cash for two dogs, “I’m not sure that there are official rules on that. Kind of like how there aren’t official rules about what would happen if you teleported between bases instead of running.”

“Now _that_ would make the game interesting. Could the ball also teleport? Nevermind, _of course_ the ball could also teleport. Otherwise it would be absurd.”

 

**Second Inning**

“You Americans have a strange obsession with — what are they called? T-shirt cannons?”

“People love free stuff, I guess.”

“But why do people love having free stuff launched at their heads at high speeds? Is this a gun culture thing?”

 

**Third Inning**

Eames takes a sip of his beer and makes a face. “What _is_ this?”

“It’s beer.”

Eames scowls at the cup. “It doesn’t _taste_ like beer. Which is to say, it doesn’t taste like _anything_.”

Arthur sighs. “Look, Eames, this is part of the baseball experience. You drink shitty beer and you eat a tremendously overpriced hot dog and if it’s a day game you’re way too hot and if it’s a night game you’re freezing cold and wonder why you didn’t bring a heavier jacket. And usually there’s a drunk idiot sitting behind you who keeps trying to start The Wave, and if you’re very lucky he’ll accidentally spill his popcorn on you. You’re bored most of the time and then around the seventh-inning stretch you try to decide whether you should leave early to avoid the crowds or stay until the end in case the Cubs somehow manage to pull out of whatever horrific situation they’ve inevitably gotten themselves into.”

“And this is America’s pastime?”

“Yes, and you’ll pry it from our cold, dead hands.”

 

**Fourth Inning**

“Are they _booing_ the pitcher?”

“Yeah.”

“But he’s on the home team!”

“Yeah, but he keeps throwing to first. It’s tedious.”

“Oh, _that_ ’s tedious? Heaven forbid something _pointless_ should happen in this game.”

“Just be glad we’re not in a city where people throw batteries onto the field.”

“It’s so adorable what you people consider a sports riot.”

 

**Fifth Inning**

“Oh, look, we’re on the big telly!” Eames points at the new Jumbotron where, sure enough, a larger version of him points offscreen.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Arthur recognizes the irony of it given that he’s on television every night, but most of the time he really hates drawing attention to himself. He looks around, trying to figure out where the camera is located, and Giant Two-Dimensional Arthur also looks around.

Eames smiles and waves gaily in the direction of the camera, which he apparently can instinctually locate. “Why aren’t you smiling, Arthur? Smile!” He grabs Arthur’s arm and moves it back and forth in an ersatz wave. Arthur snatches his arm back and attempts his own grin-and-wave. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Giant Two-Dimensional Arthur looks like a lunatic.

 

**Sixth Inning**

“ _Clearly_ the ball is under the middle hat.”

“Whatever you say.”

“No! Don’t choose the one on the right! What are you, some sort of bloody idiot?”

“Eames, it’s a twelve-year-old girl.”

“Yes, well, she’s an idiot. Oh look, the ball was under the middle hat. What a surprise.”

“You’re very invested in this Jumbotron game.”

“I’m just saying, _I’d_ have won us that Chili’s gift card.”

 

**Seventh Inning**

“If it’s the seventh inning stretch, why isn’t anyone stretching?”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“They should bring out a yoga instructor to lead the stadium in a few poses. That would be much better for Americans than yet another song about how much God loves you.”

“While that’s an intriguing idea, do you really want to see most of these people attempt a downward-facing dog?”

“Fair point. Oh, look, that bloke has ice cream in a little plastic hat. Can we get ice cream in a little plastic hat?”

 

**Eighth Inning**

“This would be more engaging if their trousers were tighter.”

“You know, I actually agree with you on that.”

 

**Ninth Inning**

The Cubs are down by six runs, so Arthur decides to complete Eames’s authentic baseball experience by leaving before the game is actually over. As they’re walking back to Arthur’s apartment, necks gritty with sunscreen and sweat, Arthur asks, reluctantly, “So. What did you think of your first baseball game?”

“My favorite part was when they sprayed the dirt with the hose,” Eames says dreamily. “It was rather relaxing.”

Arthur’s mouth twists with embarrassment. “Sorry I made you sit through that. I forgot that baseball doesn’t make any sense if you didn’t grow up with it.”

“Nonsense,” Eames says, grabbing Arthur’s hand. “I had a lovely time, because I was sitting next to a very handsome gentleman who bought me a hot dog and beer-water and fed me ice cream out of a little plastic hat.”

“I wish you’d take that off your head, by the way. Not only do you look ridiculous, but also there’s probably still some melted ice cream in there.”

“There is! My hair is very sticky right now.”

“ _You_ ,” Arthur says, shaking their joined fists, “are taking a shower before you get near any of my bed linens.”

“Mm, and will I have company for this shower?”

“It depends. If you have company for your shower, will you forget to shampoo your hair, like you did last time?”

“I never make the same mistake twice,” Eames says, as Arthur unlocks his front door.

“Then let’s go.” Arthur peels off his shirt and heads straight for the bathroom. Eames is right behind him, figuratively at first and then literally, pressed up against him as he turns on the taps, helping him out of his jeans and underwear. They climb into the shower and get themselves clean as dirtily as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I *will* get back to their actual careers shortly...
> 
> By the way, despite living in Chicago for the better part of a decade, I never actually made it to a Cubs game (gasp!). So if any Chicagoans spot any glaring errors, please let me know! (Let's pretend the whole bathroom clusterfuck didn't happen in this universe.)


	20. Satellite Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some unexpected news catches Arthur off-guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance.

On Tuesday morning, Arthur’s phone rings at 8am. When one’s schedule involves working until midnight, this is irritatingly early. Eames grumbles and pulls a pillow over his head while Arthur glances at the screen; it’s his sister. He stumbles blearily out of the bedroom and closes the door before he answers.

“Hey, Meg. Everything okay?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were dating someone new?” Megan demands.

“I— what are you talking about?”

“I had to find out from one of my coworkers! She was like, ‘Was that your brother and his boyfriend I saw on HuffPo?’ I looked like a terrible sister!”

“Hold up, hold up, what was that about the Huffington Post?” Arthur, suddenly more alert, jogs down the stairs to his computer and wakes it up. There’s an e-mail from Ariadne with the subject line “You’re not gonna like this…” Arthur clicks on the link inside and his heart drops as the page loads.

“…and of course Mom did her usual freak-out when she found out, she’s already planning your next visit home with him,” Megan is saying into his ear.

“I’ll call you back, Meg,” Arthur manages, before he hangs up the phone.

> **_America’s First Gay News Team?_ **
> 
> _“Chicago has been speculating about the sexual orientation of its two most popular news anchors, Arthur Lake and Eames, for months now, and new photographic evidence suggests that the rumors swirling — that they are gay and, even more juicily, in a relationship with one another — are in fact true. Lake and Eames (who goes solely by his last name) were spotted at a Cubs game on Saturday, looking rather cozy with one another. They even wound up on the Jumbotron. Too bad there’s no ‘Kiss Cam’ at Wrigley Field!”_

The article is accompanied by several incriminating stills of Arthur and Eames together at the game; they must have been shown on the TV broadcast. There are a bunch of the two of them watching the game and talking to one another, sitting much closer together than would be normal for two male friends. In several of them Arthur is beaming at Eames, as though Eames has just provided the answer to all of life’s questions. There’s one of Eames wiping mustard from the corner of Arthur’s mouth, and one of Arthur literally spoon-feeding Eames soft-serve ice cream. And the final photo shows the two of them leaning against one another, hands linked, peering at the field. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Arthur mutters, and then he jogs back up the stairs to the bedroom and wakes up Eames.

“Eames.”

“Muh?”

“Eames, wake up.”

Eames curls further in on himself and whimpers.

“C’mon, Eames, something’s happened.”

This seems to get Eames’s attention, because he grumbles and does his usual morning starfish-stretch, then sits up groggily. His hair is sticking up in many different directions. He blinks at Arthur like an animal emerging from a cave. “Wh’s’up?”

“Look at this,” Arthur says, shoving the computer at Eames. Eames gives a jaw-cracking yawn and peers at the screen, moving his tongue around noisily in his dry mouth. Arthur sits down on the bed next to him and waits for his reaction.

After a couple of minutes, he gets impatient. “Well?”

Eames, slightly more awake, shrugs. “I like the photos. We look very happy.”

“This is _really bad_ , Eames. The press is going to have a fucking _field day_ with this.”

“Nobody is going to care, love. Look, all the comments on this article are just people saying how happy they are for us. Several people even want to watch us have sex.”

“That’s creepy.”

“I choose to interpret it as flattering. Anyway, you’re worrying about nothing.” Arthur must look skeptical, because Eames closes the laptop and puts it aside, then presses Arthur into the mattress. “How about I distract you from your worrying? Give you something else to focus on?” he asks as he kisses his way down Arthur’s chest.

“I _am_ capable — mm — of focusing on two things at once.”

Eames pauses with his fingers hooked into the waistband of Arthur’s pajama pants. “I’m certain that I can give you a second thing to focus on as well.”

Later, as they drift back for another hour of precious sleep, Arthur says drowsily, “Maybe you’re right. That nobody will care.”

***

Eames was wrong.

As they walk up the sidewalk to the studio, they can see several dozen people loitering outside the main entrance. When Arthur and Eames near the crowd, some of the people begin applauding and whooping. In response, other people begin booing. Camera flashes begin going off. There appear to be honest-to-god paparazzi. 

“Mr. Lake, Mr. Eames.” A woman has approached them holding an audio recorder in an outstretched hand. “I’m from the Chicago Tribune. Would you care to comment on the recent allegations that the two of you are gay and in a relationship?”

“No comment,” Arthur says forcefully, before Eames can say anything.

“Arthur! Eames!” Another reporter, presumably from a less esteemed publication, starts yelling out questions. “Did you come to the office together? Did you spend the night together? Are you in love?”

People are taking photos and videos on their cell phones.

Arthur repeats “ _No comment_ ” even more loudly and, holding a hand up to protect his eyes from the flashes, escapes into the sanctuary of the lobby. Eames, thankfully, is right behind him. 

“Jesus _Christ_. What the fuck _was_ that?” Arthur can feel his heart pounding, and he’s on the verge of hyperventilating. Eames looks shell-shocked.

“Bloody hell. I guess people _do_ care.”

“I need to go lie down in the dark.” Arthur can tell he has a headache coming on.

“That sounds like a plan,” Eames agrees.

“I’ll see you at the staff meeting?” Arthur knows Eames probably was intending to be part of the lying-down-in-the-dark plan, but right now Arthur needs a little bit of space.

***

Everyone turns to look at Arthur when he walks into the conference room for the staff meeting. He knows he looks like shit warmed over. He makes an aggravated noise and sinks into a chair.

Dom clears his throat. “So. I’ve been getting a lot of press inquiries.” He looks back and forth between Eames and Arthur.

“And?” Arthur asks.

“I haven’t responded to them. But reporters from all over the country are calling.”

“Fuck,” Arthur says.

“The station has also been getting a lot of calls from viewers.”

“Supporters?” Eames asks.

“Some of them. Not most of them.”

“The photos were really cute,” Ariadne offers.

“I thought so too,” Eames replies.

“Oh, come on!” Arthur says, perhaps a bit too loudly. “These aren’t some cell phone photos we got printed up at Walgreens. These are photos that ran in the fucking Huffington Post!”

“Arthur, darling—“

“Please don’t call me that right now, Eames. That’s what got us into this situation to begin with.”

“This ‘situation’?”

“You know what I mean.” Arthur rubs his face. “Can we talk about this later? When we’re not in a meeting with all of our coworkers?”

“Fine.” Eames turns to Dom. “Anything else?”

“Well, there was a press release put out by the Family Values Council.”

Yusuf groans. “Oh god, what did _they_ have to say?”

Dom hits a few keys on his laptop and then turns it around to face the table. “You can read it for yourself.”

> **_Breaking the News_ **
> 
> _Do you think of the evening news as a time to learn about what’s happening in the world and to feel connected to your community? Well, think again. In Chicago, the evening news is now a tool for indoctrinating the American public._
> 
> _There are reports that NBC Chicago’s lead anchors, Arthur Lake and “Eames” (who has staunchly refused to provide the American public with a first name) are both homosexuals. Over the weekend, they were spotted flaunting their alleged love life at a baseball game — during the daytime! The photographs are too disturbing to include here._
> 
> _If these allegations are true, it’s troubling on multiple fronts. For one thing, how can two homosexual news anchors report in an unbiased way on important issues like same-sex “marriage” and religious freedom? Chicagoans will be spoon-fed slanted opinions instead of objective news._
> 
> _And forget any family traditions of watching the evening news together before dinner. Some have suggested that the two anchors are using homosexual code to communicate with one another during the broadcast._
> 
> _Maryann, a Naperville mother, is concerned about the effects this could have on her children. “I don’t want my kids exposed to that kind of immoral behavior,” she told us. “The evening news is supposed to be something the family can gather around, not a tool for spreading a dangerous political agenda.”_
> 
> _What can concerned Christians do? Click this link to send an e-mail to NBC and let them know that you don’t want them to use the evening news to promote the homosexual agenda. And don’t forget to donate to the Family Values Council so that we can continue to fight for your rights!_

“We reported on a literal _decapitation_ last night,” Ariadne says. “Shouldn’t they be a bit more concerned about kids hearing about _that_?” 

“Wow.” Eames furrows his brow at the screen. “I thought those stereotypes about Americans and religion were overblown, but apparently not.”

“It’s really a minority of the country that actually thinks this way,” Robert says.

“A very loud, very strident minority,” Yusuf adds.

“So,” Dom says, returning their attention to the head of the table. “I was thinking of putting out a statement—“

“No,” Arthur answers immediately.

“It can say whatever you want — confirming the relationship, or just saying ‘no comment.’ …Or denying it, if you want to go in that direction.”

“ _No_ ,” Arthur says firmly. “Ignore it.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’ll blow over.”

“Okay, whatever you want. Anyway, back to business. Robert, what’ve you got for this week?”

“Well, I got an e-mail from a guy who bought a sofa from a furniture outlet, then discovered that the cushions were stuffed with old newspapers…”

***

It doesn’t blow over. 

For the next week there are reporters and paparazzi, both professional and amateur, waiting outside the studio every afternoon when Arthur arrives and every night when he leaves. Somehow his personal cell phone number and his home address got leaked, and reporters have been hounding him over the phone and lying in wait outside his apartment. A few days in he just turned off his cell phone and didn’t turn it back on. He and Eames haven’t spent the night together since the story first broke, since being photographed heading into an apartment together at 1am would amount to a confirmation of the story in twelve-foot-tall blinking neon letters. And when they _are_ together, which mostly happens in the studio, Arthur is practically vibrating with tension, not to mention barely-suppressed resentment at how little Eames seems to care about the whole thing.

It’s Wednesday when it all comes to a head.

“Darling, don’t you think this is getting ridiculous?” Eames asks while they eat dinner silently in Arthur’s dressing room.

“It was ridiculous a week ago,” Arthur mutters.

“No, I’m not talking about the press and all that. Why can’t we just confirm the story and move on with our lives?”

“Um, because if we confirm the story I won’t _be able_ to move on with my life? My career would be dead in the water.”

“Aren’t you being a little melodramatic here?”

“Are you kidding me? A gay anchor who reports the news _with his boyfriend_? You think the country, let alone the industry, is going to take that seriously?”

“Why do you care so much what other people think?”

Arthur shouts, “ _Because my job depends on what other people think!_ ” He stands up and begins pacing around the room. “I’m supposed to report the news, Eames. I’m not supposed to _be_ the news. My career was on track until this whole thing between us.”

“I’m sorry, are you saying that this is _my fault_?”

“Nobody even gave a shit about me until I started dating you.”

“And now you have the power to influence people! You can show them that you’re not ashamed of who you are.”

“It’s not that easy, Eames. I’m not willing to make a martyr of myself.”

“I never took you for a coward, Arthur.”

“You don’t understand! This isn’t what you’ve always wanted to do with your life. You stumbled into this. You have something else you love.”

“That’s right,” Eames says, his eyes blazing. “I _do_ have something else I love. Are you saying you don’t?”

Arthur collapses onto the sofa again and rubs his brow. “I can’t do this, Eames. My career is too important to me.” 

“Fine,” Eames says. His expression shutters. “Consider it something you no longer have to do.”

“Eames—”

“You’ve made your choice, and it isn’t me.”

Arthur doesn’t have a response to that, because it is, essentially, true. Eames stares at him for a few more seconds, then sighs deeply and walks out of the room.

Arthur sits and stares blankly at the remains of his sandwich until it’s time to get ready for the late broadcast. 

***

During the late broadcast, Eames is entirely professional, reading his lines on cue and basically acting like Arthur isn’t there. After Dom counts them out, Eames stands up and leaves the set without a word. 

“Everything okay?” Dom asks, wandering in from the production booth.

“Not really,” Arthur says. He unclips his mic and heads for his own dressing room. When he gets there, he discovers an e-mail from Ariadne. 

> _just saw eames’s tweet, is there something i should know about?_

Arthur calls up Eames’s Twitter feed and looks at his latest post.

> _Setting the record straight: Arthur and I are not dating. Our relationship is strictly professional. We would appreciate it if you would respect our privacy._

Arthur knows he should feel relieved, but instead he just feels hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm sorry!! I promise it will be resolved soon -- I've already got much of the de-angstification written up. At at least we have NBT to cheer us up in the meantime.


	21. Obituaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little more angst... it will be over soon...

Fall is normally Arthur’s favorite time of year — something about the crisp air and the golden-red leaves reminds him of the excitement of new notebooks and freshly-sharpened pencils — but now all of the plants dying around him just seem like one huge, clichéd metaphor for his life. 

***

The day after the breakup, there’s a knock on Arthur’s dressing room door; he opens it to discover Eames standing there with a garment bag slung over his shoulder. Arthur feels an actual stabbing sensation in his chest at the sight.

“I brought the suits you left at my flat,” Eames says, handing the bag over.

Arthur stares at the bag, not sure whether he has the right to feel incredibly hurt.

“I thought you would want them back,” Eames continues.

“…Right. Yeah. Thanks.” Arthur fiddles with the hanger. “I can, uh, bring your stuff in tomorrow…”

“That’s all right. It’s all from thrift stores. You can just throw it out.”

“I don’t mind—“

“Or burn it. I know you’ve wanted to burn my wardrobe for a long time.” Eames gives a fake laugh.

Arthur forces himself to respond in kind. “Right. Okay, well. Thanks. Again, I mean.”

“No problem.”

They stand there awkwardly for a moment, before Eames squares his shoulders, nods sharply, and walks off, leaving Arthur staring at the empty space that he used to occupy.

***

Weeks pass. The leaves get soggy underfoot. 

Eventually Arthur is able to turn his cell phone back on, but he still gets at least one call a day from a reporter, and according to Dom there are still calls and e-mails trickling in to the network from people outraged that Arthur and Eames are still on the air.

Eames has settled on cordial-but-distant in his interactions with Arthur; he acts like they were never together at all. He’s a subdued sort of cheerful during the broadcasts, treating Arthur like a stranger — Arthur’s sure the internet has noticed, but he hasn’t had the courage to actually look — except for a few times when Arthur is pretty sure he almost slips and calls him “darling.” Arthur feels invisible most of the time, and the rest of the time he feels insane, like he may have hallucinated the entire relationship. And every time Eames says “Don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger,” Arthur feels like it’s a reprimand aimed squarely in his direction.

Arthur is searching for a functioning pen one day — _why_ doesn’t he just throw pens out when they no longer work? — when he opens a desk drawer and discovers the poem-notes that Eames left for him in that liminal week between Arthur agreeing to go out with him and Arthur actually going out with him. It’s a month later, but the pain is just as bad as it was when the wound was fresh. Eames seems to be fine. He on-air-flirts with Robert now. Robert is straight, married to a woman; _his_ career won’t be jeopardized. He laughs off the flirting, treats it as meaningless. Somehow that makes it worse.

***

It’s a Sunday night. Dom and Mal asked Arthur to babysit, and it’s not like Arthur was doing anything else with his evening, so he agreed. James is upstairs, asleep; Arthur is sitting on the couch with Phillipa in his lap, reading to her from _The Twenty-One Balloons_.

“Arthur?”

“Yeah, Fifi?”

“Why doesn’t Mister Eames come over with you anymore?”

Arthur tries to ignore the twinge in his gut at the sound of Eames’s name. “Mister Eames and I— we aren’t friends anymore. We had a fight.”

“That’s sad. What did you have a fight over?”

“It’s… complicated. I couldn’t keep doing my job and be friends with him.”

“That’s not fair,” Phillipa says, snuggling into his chest.

Arthur laughs hollowly. “No, it isn’t.”

“But your job is important ‘cause if you didn’t do it we wouldn’t know what was going on.”

“That’s right. And Mister Eames will find other friends. So it’s the best thing for everyone.” Arthur clears his throat. He is _not_ going to cry over a boy in front of his goddaughter. 

“I want to be a reporter like you when I’m grown up.”

Arthur manages a smile. “You’ll be a great reporter, Fifi.” He goes back to reading while Phillipa drifts off, her breath dampening his shirt. Then he carries her to bed, kisses her on the forehead, and goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of whiskey.


	22. We'll Do It Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to say this chapter is where this story finally enters rom-com territory, but then I realized this story has been a rom-com from the start.

That night, after Dom and Mal relieve him of his babysitting duties and he goes home and falls into an empty bed, Arthur dreams. He dreams that he and Eames are in a fancy hotel bar, happy and in love, but suddenly they are being chased by strange men in dark suits. They get into the elevator to go up to their room, but as the elevator rises, gravity disappears, and Eames begins floating away. Arthur reaches for him, screams his name, but Eames ignores him, Eames is asleep, Eames is drifting through the dissolving architecture and into the infinite abyss. As he grows smaller and smaller, Arthur feels a chill travel through his body, like ice in his veins, like he’ll never be warm again.

He wakes up. He’s in a strange warehouse, he can hear the rain pounding on the metal roof, and there’s a man on the floor in front of him with a bag over his head and his hands bound. Arthur pulls the bag away and it’s Eames. Arthur knows he needs to obtain some sort of information from him, but he can’t remember what; he beats Eames bloody with fists and feet, until his toes and knuckles are numb, but Eames just lies there and takes it. He sits on the cracked concrete floor, half in a puddle of dirty rainwater leaking from the ceiling, and he looks at Arthur as though he can see straight through him. And he says, “I think this is believable enough, don’t you?”

Arthur wakes up, for real, shaking and drenched in sweat. His phone is ringing; when he looks at it, he discovers that he slept through his alarm and it’s 11am on Monday. He curses and answers the phone. “Hello?”

“Arthur?” Ariadne is shouting, but Arthur can barely make out her voice over the background noise. It sounds like she’s in the middle of a riot.

“Ariadne? What’s going on?”

“Arthur! Hi! Um, I just wanted to give you a heads up — _EXCUSE ME, I NEED TO GET THROUGH._ ”

“Ariadne?”

“Sorry! So, uh, the Westboro Baptist Church is here—“

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I wish I were.” The background noise suddenly quiets; presumably Ariadne has made it into the building. “Holy shitballs! That was a— there’s only a few of them, but then there are all the counter-protestors, and it’s a little bit crazy. I just wanted to let you know so you were expecting it.”

Arthur sighs and rubs his face. “Thanks, Ariadne.”

“No problem, Arthur. How’re you holding up?”

“Oh, you know. Rethinking every single decision that has led me to this point in my life.”

“I don’t blame you,” Ariadne says, with palpable warmth in her voice. “Wanna get drunk tonight? Yusuf is a little wuss who goes to bed at ten” — Yusuf films his segments in advance, which means he doesn’t need to be in the studio during the broadcast — “so I’m free all night.” 

“It’s Monday.”

“So?”

“…Yeah, okay. I’ll see you in a bit.”

***

Arthur is glad that Ariadne warned him, because he’s not sure he could have handled it if he hadn’t mentally steeled himself in advance. Everyone knows the Westboro Baptist Church is batshit insane, of course, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to see giant neon signs saying “GOD HATES FAGS” and “FAGS DIE GOD LAUGHS” and to hear people shouting about how he and everyone he cares about is going to hell. The counter-protestors outnumber the WBC by a large number, and many of them are carrying parody signs that say things like “GOD HATES FIGS” and “GOD HATES SIGNS” and, written in rainbow letters, “HELL MUST BE FABULOUS.” But it all blends together into a cacophony of yelling and chanting, and Arthur just tries to keep his head down and get into the building as quickly as possible.

At the staff meeting he accidentally meets Eames’s gaze and Eames gives him a look that might be concern. Arthur looks back at his notepad quickly and continues doodling the members of the WBC getting struck by lightning. He adds a small group of stick figures in speedos laughing uproariously at the sight. 

Between the staff meeting and the early broadcast, he lies on the couch in his dressing room and stares at the ceiling. He can hear people still chanting outside the building; he can’t make out the words, but he can hear the rhythm of it, the mesmerizing pulsing of voices.

He stares at the drawing posted above the couch. Phillipa made it for him last year; it’s a drawing of a man holding a microphone, wearing what could be a suit, with a big red grin on his face. “ARTHUR” is printed across the bottom in Mal’s neat handwriting. Arthur thinks back to their conversation the previous night. He knows he should feel sad, but instead he feels angry.

***

His rage is reaching technicolor levels by the time the early broadcast rolls around, but he manages to rein it in and act professional. Until five minutes before the broadcast ends, that is. 

“Next, Yusuf Abadi reports on a very special hamster who — actually, you know what, nevermind.”

“Um… Arthur?” Dom says into the earpiece. Arthur ignores him.

“You want a human interest story? Humans seem to be _very_ interested in my love life right now. So let me end the speculation once and for all. No, I am not a gay news anchor.” 

Out of his peripheral vision, he can see Eames stiffen. He continues. “I’m a news anchor and I’m gay, but the two things have nothing to do with one another. Nobody seemed to have a problem with my reporting _before_ the Huffington Post was speculating about my sexual orientation, so it seems very convenient that all of a sudden my journalistic integrity is being called into question.”

Dom is silent in Arthur’s earpiece, save for the sound of his faster-than-usual breathing.

“The idea that I’m somehow more biased than other reporters because I’m gay? That’s bul— that’s ridiculous. Reporters put aside all _sorts_ of personal issues in order to present the news as neutrally as they can. That’s one of the skills that makes someone good at this job. And I’m _damn_ good at this job.”

“Oh, and by the way,” Arthur adds, pointing at the camera, “if same-sex marriage is something that somehow affects straight people, then wouldn’t a straight anchor be just as biased when reporting on it? You can’t have it both ways, people.” 

Arthur clasps his hands together and begins to speak more forcefully. “My personal life has nothing to do with my job. _Nothing_. In the seven years that I’ve been working as a journalist, it has never affected the way I’ve reported something. It has been completely irrelevant to the workplace.”

He pauses, looks at his palms locked together on the desk. “Actually, that’s not true. Because a few months ago I met someone through work. I’m pretty sure I fell in love with him, actually.” Beside him, Eames lets out a long breath. “I found myself in the very unfamiliar position of being happy. And instead of shouting it from the rooftops, the way that any sane person would want to, I kept it a secret. Not because I was ashamed but because I knew that if and when it came to light, it would completely overshadow my professional accomplishments and jeopardize my career. Maybe that makes me a coward. Maybe that makes me a realist.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I mean, today I had to walk through signs saying ‘God Hates Fags’ to get to work. _That’s_ what happens when I’m seen in public holding a significant other’s hand.”

“If we’d been a man and a woman,” he continues, “then it would have been a cute romantic story that wouldn’t make it past the local papers. I mean, Connie Chung is married to _Maury Povich_ and nobody ever suggested that _that_ might show a lack of good judgment. But because we were both men apparently _everyone in the country_ cared, and it was making it impossible for me to do my job. And I love my job. I love being the person you trust to bring you the news every night.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “So I said f— forget it, clearly I can’t be a person and an anchor at the same time, at least not when some dwindling segment of the population seems to think that straight people have some sort of magic goggles that let them see the truth. And I chose being an anchor. I know I should say it was a hard decision, but it wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong, it _sucked_. It was horrible. Still is. But this” — Arthur gestures to the studio — “is what I’ve wanted to do since I was in _second grade_.” 

A melancholy smile comes over Arthur’s face. “And then last night I was talking to my goddaughter — she’s six — and she told me she wanted to be a reporter when she grows up, just like me. And you know what I wanted to tell her? I wanted to say, ‘Don’t do it.’ I wanted to tell her to choose a job that lets her still be a human being. I wanted to discourage her from pursuing the career I’ve spent my entire life working towards.”

He looks straight into the camera. “Because, no, my personal life has never affected my job, but my job has certainly affected my personal life. And that isn’t fair. That is _painfully_ unfair. That I had to choose between the job I love and the person I love.” Arthur lets out a bitter laugh. “Well, now that I’ve given this little impromptu speech, I probably don’t have either. But on the off chance that I do still have a job, I’d appreciate it if you could all calm down and let me actually _do_ it.”

He clears his throat and sits up straight again. “Well, that’s all we have for now. Tune in again at 10pm for more breaking news coverage from the team you trust. From all of us at News5, good evening.”

He waits for Eames to add his line about dreaming, but Eames is silent. The entire set is silent, in fact, save for Dom quietly counting them out. 

Arthur’s head is buzzing and he’s not sure whether he wants to curl into a ball and cry or skip down the halls punching his fist in the air. He can’t bring himself look at anyone, especially not Eames. He strips his mic off and speed-walks to the refuge of his dressing room, where he'll be able to figure out what the hell he just did.


	23. Reunion Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall-out from Arthur's speech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently yesterday I was so anxious to post the previous chapter that I a) reused a chapter title and b) forgot that they were doing the early broadcast, not the late one. So I've gone back and fixed that.

Arthur closes the dressing room door behind him and immediately begins to pace. It was tremendously reckless, what he just did — and it felt _amazing_. How long had he been sitting on that anger and resentment? Years, certainly. But it was bad enough losing Eames, and now he might — probably will, in fact — lose his job as well. The irony doesn’t escape him, that if he’d just fucked his job up a month ago he could at least still be with Eames. But instead he chose having a career over having Eames, and now he quite possibly has nothing at all.

He can hear his cell phone vibrating on his desk; no doubt it’s whichever of his friends happened to be watching the broadcast, checking in to see if he’s had a nervous breakdown. He ignores it, because he’s not sure if the answer is yes or no. He looks around his office, thinking about which of the stuff belongs to him, mentally packing it up in boxes.

There’s a knock on his dressing room door. When he opens it, Dom is standing in the hallway.

“So I’m assuming I’m fired?” Arthur asks, letting Dom into the room. 

“Arthur, I regularly showed up to work _obliterated_ when Mal was in the hospital. And I’m still here.”

That is true. Dom didn’t handle Mal’s illness as well as he probably could have. “Yeah, because I went to bat for you.”

“Well, if Saito has a problem with your incredibly eloquent speech, in which you didn’t say a single thing that wasn’t true… then _I’m_ going to bat for _you_.” 

Arthur feels so grateful he could cry. “Thanks, Dom. That… that means a lot to me.”

“After everything you’ve done for me and Mal and the kids, this is nothing. But I’ll let you buy me a beer, anyway.”

Arthur gives Dom a man-hug with a lot of back-slapping, and when they separate they pretend that neither of them has tears in his eyes.

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything from the network,” Dom says as he leaves.

Arthur returns to pacing around the room, forming mental flow charts. It’s only a few minutes later when Dom’s back knocking on the door. _Probably not a good sign_ , Arthur thinks with dread.

“You heard from the network _already_?” he asks, opening the door.

It isn’t Dom. It’s Eames, looking haunted. 

“Shit.” Arthur scrubs a hand through his plasticized hair. “I probably should have asked you before I said all that stuff.”

“Did you mean it?” Eames asks, stepping into the room.

Arthur mentally rewinds what he can remember of his speech, and winces when he gets to the part about it not being a hard decision to break up with Eames. Probably not the kindest thing he could have said. He’s done with lying, though, so he says, “Yes. I meant all of it.”

Eames shakes his head and chuckles mirthlessly.

Arthur starts to apologize — “Look Eames, I’m sorry I” — but he’s interrupted by Eames grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him. Arthur has no idea what’s going on, but he kisses back, because he’s not an idiot.

Eames kisses Arthur as though he’s drowning; Eames kisses Arthur as though he wants to eliminate every molecule that stands between them; Eames kisses Arthur as though he’s been wandering the desert for a year and Arthur is fresh, cold water. When their lips break apart, he pulls Arthur against him and presses his face into Arthur’s neck. 

“I am so sorry that I ever called you a coward, Arthur. I shouldn’t have given up on you so quickly.”

Arthur breathes in the skin under Eames’s jaw, relishing the unfamiliar familiar scent of him. “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry that I didn’t try harder to find a solution. And I’m sorry that our relationship wasn’t enough of a reason for me to come out, but a conversation with a six-year-old kid apparently was.”

Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s shoulders and squeezes them emphatically. “Your speech was beautiful. Every single part of it. Angry and brilliant and beautiful. _You’re_ angry and brilliant and beautiful.”

“Eames.” Arthur grabs Eames’s face to ensure that they’re making eye contact. “Eames, I’m still in love with you. Are you— do you still want to be with me?”

“God, of course I do, Arthur.”

“Then… you could call me ‘darling’ again?”

Eames’s smile is the broadest Arthur has ever seen. “ _Darling_ , I am going to take you to bed and I’m not letting you out for at least a week.”

“We still have the late broadcast, assuming I don’t get fired before then.”

“Well, fuck.”

“And also the rest of the week.”

“Fine, _after_ we’re done working tonight, I’m going to take you to bed and I’m not letting you out for at least six hours.”

“I’m looking forward to it. And in the meantime… we have four hours before the late broadcast.”

“To be honest, love, at this point I’m so keyed up I’ll be lucky if I can last for fifteen minutes.”

“Then we can manage dinner, too.”

“Round one, dinner, round two?” Eames asks as Arthur leads him to the couch and begins unbuckling his belt.

“That sounds like a solid plan to me,” Arthur answers against Eames’s lips as Eames pulls his shirt up out of his trousers.

Eames’s fifteen-minute estimate, it turns out, was overly generous; it’s only a few minutes of frantic groping before they’re gasping into one another’s mouths and Arthur is collapsing on top of Eames. 

“Fuck, I missed you,” he says into Eames’s armpit.

“It was torture,” Eames agrees.

“You seemed fine.” Arthur tries not to sound too hurt when he says this.

“I’m an actor, remember? I was horribly in love with you the whole time.”

Arthur contemplates this. “I’m pretty sure we’re both idiots.”

“We’re each other’s idiots, though.” Eames strokes a finger along the edge of Arthur’s ear.

“I may be an _unemployed_ idiot.”

“We’ll deal with it as it comes. You could always move back to London with me; nobody there would care that you’re gay.”

Arthur lifts his head to look at Eames’s face, surprised as the casual tone of the suggestion. “You’d really want that?”

“All kidding aside, darling, I’m done with being an idiot. The cat’s out of the bag now, and there’s nothing standing in our way, provided you’re done being an idiot as well.”

Arthur shakes his head ruefully. “There’s nothing left for me to be an idiot about. I’ve reached peak idiocy. I’ve been to the mountaintop, and it was really, really dumb.”

“Good. Then we’re in agreement. Let’s go get dinner and then shag again. I think I can go for the full fifteen minutes next time.”

“And they say romance is dead,” Arthur comments, sitting up and putting his clothing back in order.

***

He sends Ariadne a text as he and Eames walk to pick up food.

> **Rain check on drinks tonight? Something else has come up**
> 
> _i’ll bet it has. if by “something else” you mean “eames’s penis”_
> 
> **No comment.**

Arthur returns his phone to his pocket with a grin, and puts his arm back around Eames’s waist.

***

Arthur hasn’t been fired by the late broadcast, so it goes ahead as planned. Everyone is silent and still as Arthur and Eames take their places at the desk — nobody seems to know what to expect, whether Arthur’s poorly-suppressed smile means that he’s still deranged or that he and Eames have made up. But they go through the broadcast with the utmost professionalism, acting as though the early broadcast hadn’t happened. Ariadne files a report on electrical problems in South Side elementary schools; Yusuf’s segment on a hamster that can detect seizures airs the way it should have four hours ago. Arthur keeps one eye on the clock, counting down the minutes until he can take Eames home and make up for their lost weeks. 

At last they reach the end of the half hour, and Arthur says his usual sign-off: “Well, that’s all we have for this evening. Tune in again tomorrow at 6pm for more breaking news coverage from the team you trust. Stay tuned for the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon. From all of us at News5, goodnight.”

But then, perhaps drawing on some kind of crazy psychic link (even though Arthur doesn’t believe in that shit), he and Eames each move a hand toward the middle of the desk and clasp their palms together, in full view of the cameras.

“And don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger,” Eames says.

Arthur can’t hear Dom counting them out over the sound of the entire crew applauding.


	24. Follow-up Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go back to normal. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go...

The next few weeks of Arthur’s life go surprisingly well.

Being back with Eames, of course, is the most obvious change. When they’re not in the studio, they’re generally holed up in Arthur’s apartment, sleeping, fucking, and talking over old movies when they’re too tired to fuck but not tired enough to sleep. A week in, they finally stop apologizing to each other about the breakup, and two weeks in Arthur stops worrying that this is all a dream he’s going to wake up from any second. Eames moves more of his clothing into Arthur’s apartment, supplementing the items Arthur was supposed to throw out but never did. 

Eames finally makes Arthur try a full English breakfast, and Arthur concludes that he’s never going to eat beans for breakfast again. Arthur bakes Eames a cake, and then another cake when Eames finishes the first one, and a third cake when Eames finishes _that_. Eames complains that Arthur is going to make him fat and occasionally convinces Arthur to accompany him on a jog along the lakefront (and more often convinces him to burn calories in other ways). They plan a trip to Providence so Arthur can introduce Eames to his parents. 

Arthur’s job, to his tentatively-happy surprise, is pretty much the same as it was before his speech. Any problems he might have caused with his lack of professionalism were far outweighed by the fact that the viewing figures for the late broadcast that night were higher than any other Chicago news broadcast, ever. Apparently the news of Arthur’s on-air breakdown spread quickly, and everyone in the Chicago metro area wanted to see if he’d continue his descent into utter batshit madness. And on Saito’s list of priorities, viewing numbers far outrank professionalism.

True, in the days following that fateful broadcast, it seemed like not just Chicago but the entire _country_ was interested in Arthur’s life. A still of him and Eames with their hands linked ran on the front page of the _New York Times_ (although it was small and below the fold). He got calls from _The Advocate_ and _Out_ looking for interviews, which he turned down politely, referring them to Eames — who accepted with delight, especially when he learned that _Out_ wanted him to do a shirtless photo spread. The first time he and Eames went out for dinner in Boystown, they got a standing ovation from the restaurant staff and their waiter treated them like royalty. 

A clip of Arthur’s speech quickly racked up 20 million views on YouTube. Eames was probably responsible for a not-insignificant number of those views; whenever Arthur left him alone for more than 15 seconds he’d come back to find Eames watching the clip on his phone, sometimes adding color commentary like “oh, _snap_ ” and “You tell ‘em, my feisty little warrior!” 

(Eames made Arthur sit through the clip once. Arthur found it so awkward to watch himself that he focused all of his attention on Eames, and suddenly he could see why Ariadne was so sure that he and Eames had gotten back together; the transmutation of Eames’s expression during the speech was a work of art in itself. When Arthur first goes off script, Eames looks apprehensive, staring into the camera like a deer in headlights. But soon he is looking at Arthur with impressed surprise as Arthur begins berating people who questioned his neutrality. When Arthur says that he fell in love with Eames, Eames’s lips part in shock and he visibly freezes; he thaws as Arthur tells the story about Phillipa, and by the time Arthur arrives at the rousing end of his diatribe, Eames is staring at him with such an intense look of wonder and adoration that Arthur is surprised he couldn’t _feel_ it on his skin.)

(After watching that, Arthur straddled Eames’s hips and murmured “I never want you to stop looking at me like that.” Eames brushed the hair off his forehead and replied, “That’s easy enough, because I don’t think you’ll ever stop amazing me.”)

So Arthur found himself even more of a minor celebrity for little while, although it wasn’t quite as irritating when he no longer had anything to hide. But things died down pretty quickly, as things are wont to do when they’re not secrets, and now he and Eames are generally free to go about their days as they like. They don’t have to dodge journalists or paparazzi, they can take the El to work, and their service in restaurants is back to slow and preoccupied. Occasionally they have to stop to take a selfie with a fan, but all in all it seems like a more-than-fair trade-off if it means Arthur gets to have Eames. 

***

They’re lounging in bed on a Friday morning, enjoying some daylight laziness before they have to head into the office, when Arthur’s phone rings.

***

Arthur is dazed as he puts his phone back on the bedside table.

“Everything all right, love?” Eames asks.

“That was… NBC.”

“What, Dom? What does he want now?”

“No, no, not— it was _NBC_ NBC. You know… Rockefeller Center. With the big gold statue.”

“Yeah?”

“They want to hire me as a reporter for the nightly news. Like, the NBC Nightly News. The one they show all over the country.”

“Darling.” Eames is beaming as though the good news were for _him_. 

“The producer said that after my speech went viral they looked up my reels and were impressed by my work.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, love.”

“I mean, it’s not an anchor job, but it’s still a step up. And I wouldn’t have to sit in a studio all day. And I’d get to travel.”

“It sounds perfect. You’re going to take it, right?”

“I mean, I’d be crazy not to.” Arthur lets himself fall backward onto the bed. “Shit, I’d have to move to New York, though.”

“Hmm.” Eames rubs his stubble. “I’ve heard New York has a halfway decent theater scene.”

Arthur peers at Eames, gauging his seriousness. “You would move to New York with me?”

Eames shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

“I wouldn’t even _risk_ my job for you, but you’ll quit yours and move across the country for me?”

“Arthur, love, I thought you were done feeling guilty about that. You know I don’t particularly care about my job. But you care about yours.”

Arthur stares at the ceiling, considering this.

“Besides,” Eames adds, “I’ve mentioned wanting to get back to acting.”

“Hmm.” Arthur turns on his side, propping his head up on an elbow. “So does this mean the return of Rupert Browne?”

Eames cringes. “The only reason I’m letting you get away with calling me that is your very fine arse,” he says, putting a hand on the body part in question and squeezing.

“Are you going to wear an earring? A _dangly_ one?” Arthur grins and tugs on Eames’s earlobe.

“I’m going to dangle _you_ out the _window_ if you call me ‘Rupert’ again.”

“So sorry. Would you prefer ‘Rupie’?”

Eames hits him with a pillow.

“‘Pert’?”

“I’ll show _you_ pert,” Eames says, tackling Arthur to the bed and pinching him all over his chest while Arthur squeals and bucks. 

Pinches quickly turn to caresses, and squealing turns to sighing turns to muffled moaning, and bucking… well, the bucking continues, as Arthur surrenders to the inevitability of Eames. 

Soon there will be job details to iron out, contracts to sign, the arduous process of moving to plan. But right now, there are other important things to do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I can't believe it's done. I had such a lovely time writing this, due entirely to all of you who followed along and commented so generously. I hope the ending was satisfying enough! It's always hard to end something one has spent so much time thinking about and working on.
> 
> I don't know what I'll do next; I have a Sherlock fic in the planning stages, but I know there's no way I can abandon Arthur and Eames for very long. Feel free to follow me on Tumblr (I'm involuntaryorange there as well), where I am known to post ridiculously cracky fic drabbles (such as "Arthur the nipple fluffer") and occasional shirtless photos of Tom Hardy.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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